Don't Know Chapter 1
by notsing
Summary: Don whump, I don't own Numb3rs.  Having all sorts of computor problems, I was having problems posting chapter 12 last night and something got messed up, but the REAL chapter 12 is up now!
1. Chapter 1

don't know

_This is a new venture for me. It's my first attempt at a multi-chapter story, and the first time I've posted anything rated M. I didn't mean to tackle two new things at once, but I've been wanting to try a multi-chapter, and this is the story that demanded to be written. _

_I do have a couple warnings. First, this is rated M for a reason, and it will earn it's rating. Don won't just be whumped, he'll be debased. I won't go into excruciating detail, but I won't be coy either. There will be no doubt as to what's going on. He 's not exactly raped, but he is abused in a sexual manner. If you find this disturbing, please don't read this story._

_Also, there's a character death, not a brother. Thanks for reading._

prologue

He thought he would be spared Megan, at least. He should have been spared Megan. She had left the FBI, and their lives, so long ago, but no, here she was back. And how irritating that it was Charlie, naturally, that was responsible for her reappearance.

Don wasn't sure which irritated him more; having Megan in his face, or the idea that Megan was in his face because his precious little brother had begged her to come.

Of course she wouldn't say no to Charlie. No one ever said no to Charlie. Everyone always adored Charlie.

It wasn't really Charlie's genius, that was just an excuse. Everyone loved Charlie from the get-go, a lot more than they ever liked Don. People only liked Don if he did what he was suppose to do; play the role he was suppose to play.

Protective big brother, dutiful son, dependable jock or dedicated federal agent. That was all Don was good for, and if he didn't have that, what good was he? Why should he even exist?

That's why they wanted him to get well. So he could go back to being good old Don, taking care of everything. But taking care of Megan was no longer part of his job, and he didn't need her here taking care of him, thank-you very much.

Why couldn't everyone leave him alone? Go fawn over Charlie, help HIM if he was freaking out, and let Don lick his wounds in private.

He loathed it , every second of it. They all walked delicately around him, as if he were a wild animal trapped in a cage. It was like they were trying not to spook him, like Don might suddenly take to his heels and run away.

They tried to gentle him, "It's okay, just take it easy. Try to relax. You're safe now. Everything's going to be alright."

Alright? No, it was not alright, and nothing was ever going to make it alright.

Don wasn't a child. He hated being patronized. He wanted to scream at them, throw himself on the floor, and drum his feet in anger. Of course, that would only confirm that he wasn't 'stable'.

God, he had to be stable. He had to get out of here. The only way that was going to happen is if he played their game. So he needed to play along, charm Bradford and Megan, convince them he was sane. And he would do that, as soon as he figured out how to break this block of ice that surrounded him.

He kind of liked the ice that encased him, it kept feelings at bay. If you're frozen, you can't hurt. But other people and his own plans threatened that ice. He could accept his plans breaking through the ice, but really, why did anyone else have a right to use icepicks on him?

Bradford and Megan, they kept trying to probe into his mind, his soul, as if he had some obligation to bare himself to them. Couldn't they understand Don wanted to keep a little piece of himself private?

He didn't want to share; he didn't want to let anyone IN. He wanted to slam the door, keep them out. He especially wanted to keep Charlie and Megan out.

He wasn't sure why, really, he wanted to keep those two out, but he knew he did. He pondered that, what the two had in common, that they both roused the same feeling in him.

Then he had it; Charlie and Megan were both so certain of themselves. They acted like they had already finished the book, and were waiting for everyone else, particularly Don, to catch up. They never failed to make Don feel like an idiot.

If Charlie HAD to contact an old teammate because he was worried about his brother, why couldn't it have been Terry? Don would have been a lot more comfortable letting Terry in.

Terry would have seen pass his bullshit of course. But she wouldn't have called him on it. She would understand, and would deliberately turn a blind eye and go along with him.

Bradford, he could bullshit Bradford too. Oh, the man would probably realize he was being played, but in the end, he didn't have the time or the patience to, well, have the time and patience to bother. If Don wanted to play games, and as long as Don wasn't suicidal, Bradford would shrug, and play along.

Charlie? What a joke. Yeah, the kid was smart, but oh so easy. The day Don couldn't run circles around his little brother would be the day Don would eat his gun.

Megan though, was a problem. He couldn't play Megan, and she wouldn't simply look the other way if she suspected what his plans were. Nope, he had to keep her out. He silently engaged in a mental conversation with her, refusing to actually voice his thoughts.

"Don? Please look at me Don. It's hard to talk to you when you stare at the wall."

_I like staring at the wall, it's restful. Besides, I don't want you to talk to me. What part of that don't you get?_

"Don, please. I'm just worried about you, everyone's worried about you. Talk to me."

_I don't care if the whole world is worried about me. All I care about right now is myself, and the plans I've made. Surely I'm entitled?_

"You've been through so much, torture..." Megan's voice faltered.

_Yeah, I remember. Funny thing, Megan, I don't recall you in that barn. Oh wait, you just watched it on YouTube with the rest of the world. Well, except Charlie and Amita of course. They were in Langley, of all places, doing a consulting job for the fucking CIA. Talk about ironic._

Megan caught her breath, "Then, there's Robin. Don, I'm so sorry about Robin..." her voice petered out again.

_I WILL NOT THINK ABOUT ROBIN! And you, fucking bitch, have no right to speak her name. Okay, yeah, I know I'm being unreasonable, but fuck, I FEEL like being unreasonable. Why am I always expected to be the reasonable one here? Why should I be the reasonable one here? Oh yeah, so I can get out of this place._

"Don, really, you need to talk. You're freaking people out. Your dad's worried sick, and Charlie's frantic. He's going to be sick himself, if he doesn't calm down."

_Charlie? I'm suppose to get well for Charlie's sake? FUCK CHARLIE! I am so God-damn sick of my whole life revolving around Charlie! I'm tortured, my wife is murdered, and yet, it's STILL about Charlie! When is it ever going to be about ME?_

Megan must have seen some reaction to Charlie's name, so she kept on, "Your brother loves you. He feels terrible that he wasn't here, and didn't even know what was going on. He wants so badly to help you, but he's over his head." Megan smiled sadly, "He admits, he doesn't know how math applies here, which is why he called me."

_Well, how about that? Numbers aren't everything! Numbers don't stop the pain when you're tortured. Numbers don't ease the humilation when the whole world witnessess your torture, and numbers don't bring the dead back to life. Congratulations Charlie! Maybe you finally learned something besides your fucking math._

Megan was evidently encouraged by some involuntary response of Don's to go on, "Charlie called me to ask what he coud do to help. I was planning on visiting Larry anyway, so I came on back to LA. Charlie and Alan are concerned that you don't talk."

_Unbelievable! Her yapping on and on about CHARLIE really was helping! Just probably not in the way Megan intended. I can feel my anger, my fury, burning a fire inside me. A fire hot enough to melt this ice and unlock my tongue! Good work Megan! You pushed the right button._

"Oh, good! At least you're looking at me, and not the wall. That's some progress." Megan paused, "I don't suppose you want to actually say something?"

_She's dangerous! Do NOT talk to her! Don't give Megan, of all people, anything! It's like your own version of the Miranda code, anything you say to Megan can and will be used against you!_

"Bradford," he croaked out.

If Megan was surprised to finally hear his voice, she hid it well, "Bradford? You want me to get Bradford?"

Don nodded, his throat still felt too tight to talk.

Megan smiled and laid a hand on his arm, "Okay, I'll get Bradford. I'm glad you're talking Don."


	2. Chapter 2

don't know chapter

A week earlier

He had been careless, recognized he'd been careless the second he felt the prongs enter his back.

_Taser! _His brain screamed, even as he felt his body flop helplessly to the ground. He felt rough hands on him, pinning him, handcuffing him using his own fucking cuffs, then hauling him none too gently up and throwing him into the back of a SUV.

Don tried to fight as a matter of course, out of an almost a primitive response, although his brain was telling him there was no point. He felt the prick of a needle, and still fought to stay awake, despite the fact he knew it was a lost cause.

He never had any doubt as to what this was about, and who was behind this. Mostly, he felt angry. How had they found out Robin's name? Who had leaked her name?

Then he felt fear, not for himself, but for HER.

_Oh God Robin, I'm sorry, so sorry. Don't worry about me! Don't back off or lose focas because of me! Keep fighting! Hit them with everything you've got! And most of all, be safe. They know who you are! Remember that, and play it safe. Then it went dark._

He was itchy and cold. Itchy, cold, and very uncomfortable. Was he laying on the ground? Why was he on the ground? Don awoke with a rush, sitting up abruptly.

He looked around, confused, as his brain scrambled to put the pieces together. He had been tased, shoved into a SUV, then drugged. Don slowly took stock of his current situation.

He seemed to be in some kind of an old barn, sitting on a dirt floor covered in straw. At least, Don thought it was straw. He was definitely not a farm boy. Maybe it was hay. What did he know? Or care? It was yellowish, tubular, and itchy where it poked his bare skin. Yes, his bare skin.

He was nude, with an old, ratty blanket to cover up with. There was a pole in the middle of the barn and a chain padlocked to it. The other end of the chain was padlocked to his left ankle.

Don spent some time inspecting the chain and the locks, but soon gave it up. He would need a major hacksaw to cut through, and there didn't seem to be any tools laying around the barn.

The only things in the barn, besides Don and the pole with the chain, were some bales of straw (hay?), and old water trough for long gone animals, still almost full of scumy water, a plastic jug of what looked like water, and a port-a-pot.

Don investigated the port-a-pot first, and found the chain easily reached far enough for him to use it. He examined it, wondering if any part of it could some how be used to help him escape, but finally gave that up as a lost cause.

Hannibal Lector might be able to undo padlocks using a pen, but he would like to see anyone use a port-a-pot to unchain themselves.

Don went ahead and used the port-a-pot, and almost laughed. A very civilized kidnapping, if he just had clothes, not to mention food. At least he had water. He carefully looked over the water jug, wondering if it was drugged, but finally shrugged and drank some.

If it was drugged or poisoned, how would that be any worse than being extremely dehydrated? But the water tasted fresh, if slightly warm, and Don didn't feel funny after drinking it, so he decided it was safe. He drank sparingly only because he wasn't sure when he would get more.

Then he wrapped himself up in the old blanket, sat on a bale of straw (he decided he would call it straw, even if it was really hay), and waited. Trouble was, he didn't know what he was waiting for.

He had plenty of time, while he waited, to worry. He worried about himself (impossible not to, considering the circumstances), he worried about his team, his father, but most of all about his bride.

_Oh God, Robin. She had only been Ms. Eppes for a couple of months (and Don was surprised, but pleased, that she was actually going by that name, and not Ms. Brooks), was facing the biggest, most daunting trial of her life, and her dork of a husband gets kidnapped. _

_How could he have been so careless? They had been aware of the possibility, but they had jumped through hoops to keep the name of the lead prosecuting attorney secret. He had been more worried about Robin's safety then his own, arrogantly assuming he could protect himself. _

_Hadn't being stabbed taught him anything? Anyone can be got, ANYONE. And now he was got, and he and Robin would both pay the price._

He got restless as the day wore on, and paced as far as the chain would let him. The barn was old, with cracks between the weathered wood planks, and streaks of sunshine striped the straw covered floor. Against one wall he could see a ladder that went to the loft above, but it was out of his reach.

He drank some more water, and made use of the portable toilet again, and got increasing hungry. Were they just going to leave him here, let him slowly starve to death? That didn't seem likely, especially since they had gone to the trouble of giving him (bad pun) a pot to piss in.

As the shadows in the barn grew larger and darker, Don pulled the ratty blanket closer around him, and tried to find a comfortable spot to wait out the night. He didn't expect to fall asleep, but he did.

Don woke with a start, cold and stiff. The straw was really itchy. Maybe he was allergic? Well, if he was, it was the least of his problems right now. Still, he tried to brush the straw off him as best he could, then shook out his blanket.

He made use of the toilet and water jug again, and tried to tell himself he wasn't really THAT hungry. Then he sat and waited. Then he paced. Then he sat again. He wished he had his watch. He tried to gauge the time by the shadows and the streaks of sunlight,but he was woefully inept.

He heard the sound of the engine first, and didn't trust his ears. But as the noise got increasingly louder, he knew it wasn't his imagination. Some one was coming, and he was pretty sure it wasn't to rescue him.

He heart pounded and his breathing grew harsh. He could feel sweat soaking his hair, and he tightened the hold on his blanket. Don was sure he would have felt braver if he at least had some clothes on. It was hard to feel macho clad only in a worn, dirty blanket.

The vehicle pulled up outside the barn, then the engine cut off. Don heard voices, but couldn't make out clearly what was being said. He suspected it was mostly in Spanish anyway.

Then there was a dragging noise as the big double doors of the barn were pulled open, and sunlight flooded the interior. All Don could see was the silhouettes of a half a dozen men, the sudden brightness of the sun blinding him after so much time in the relative dimness of the barn.

"Hello Agent Eppes, I hope you weren't too uncomfortable?" The voice was surprisingly, American. The man who went with the voice was also American. He was young, good looking, with shaggy blond hair and gray eyes.

Don was puzzled, almost panicked, surely it was Ramirez behind all of this? He couldn't have been wrong all along could he? But then the other men moved closer, and they were undeniably hispanic.

"Who ever you are, tell Ramirez it won't work," Don tried to sound confident.

The blond smiled at him, "Sorry I haven't introduced myself. You can call me Jenkins. And trust me, this will work. How do you think the new Mrs. Eppes is going to like seeing hubby starring on YouTube?"

Don swallowed hard, "What?"

Jenkins laughed, "Oh yes! We'll get some very graphic scenes for YouTube! Julio," he gestured to one of the men holding a mini-cam, "is very good at what he does!"

Jenkins smiled at Don, "Trust me Agent Eppes, I'm also very good at what I do. I was well payed to hurt you, but not kill you. That harder than it sounds.

"You're probably already aware, in your line of work, that Hollywood usually gets it all wrong. For example, beating someone up; it's way too easy to do too much damage and kill someone, and just as important, hitting someone hurts your own hand as much as it does the other person.

"Nope, we want you in pain, but still breathing. Kill you, and your bride will just be more determined to go after Ramirez, won't she?

"But if she has regular live videos of you writhing in pain, that's going to get to her, don't you think?"

Don stared at this handsome, young man smiling at him and felt his heart sink. He tried to tell himself that it didn't sound like they were planning on killing him, but that was cold comfort.

"So Agent Eppes, shall we get started?"


	3. Chapter 3

don't know chapter three

He tried to make himself relax. After all, he was out numbered six to one, and he was chained. Fighting would only earn him more bruises.

They grabbed him and started dragging him toward the old trough. Don went limp as possible. Make them do the work, expend as little as energy as he could he told himself. It wasn't hard to figure out what was going to happen as soon as he got to the trough.

Don made himself breath deep, trying to get as much oxygun as possible into his lungs. Breathe deep! he ordered his body. Stay limp and breathe deep! If he could only shut off his brain. Unfortunately he recalled stories he had read about favorite torture methods used in Central and South America.

He just had time, when they reached the trough, to give thanks the it was the trough, and not some nasty, filthy toilet, then his brain was screaming KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!

He saw the water in the trough, and it was greenish, like pond scum, then he was closing his eyes tight and sucking in a last mouth full of air before the top half of his body was shoved underwater.

He tried not to fight it, remembering the life saving lessons he had taken as a teenager so he could work as a life guard. (It was a great way to get a tan, not to mention girls.) But as time went on, his lungs started burning from desperately needing fresh air. He squirmed, trying to lift his head out of the vile water, then he felt a hand shove roughly between his thighs, grab his testicles, and sqeeze.

The pain was unbelievable; red hot and overwhelming. Don's body jack-knifed and bucked, trying to almost pull away from the pain. Involuntarily, his mouth opened to draw in air to scream, and instead drew in a lung full of scummy water.

Pure panic set in. Between the pain radiating from his crotch to his lungs' violent need for air, Don was no longer capable of rational thought. He was simply reacting, thrashing wildly both to escape the pain and fighting to get a breath. He felt a weird weakness rush through his body, and just had time to think, 'I'm going out'.

When he woke up, he was alone, once more laying on the straw strown dirt, covered with the blanket. He laid quietly, drawing in deep breaths, despite the burning down his throat and into his lungs. His balls still felt tender, with pain pulsing down to his knees.

Don rested, trying to gather up his strength to move. Finally, he forced himself into a sitting position, and cautiously looked around. Everything was pretty much as it had been the first time he woke in the barn.

However, there were pieces of paper taped to the port-a-pot, there was a second jug of water next to the half filled first, and there was a small plastic sack next to the water jugs.

Don climbed carefully to his feet, then on trembling legs walked to the toilet to investigate what was posted. There was a hand-written note, saying 'Here's an example of what's already been posted on YouTube! You're a star! See you tomorrow!' Below the note were pictures of Don, nude, being forced to the trough, shoved face down into the foul water, then fighting to get out.

One photo, in particular, was disturbing. It was a rear shot, centered on Don's ass, thighs spread wide, exposing everything. Don stared at that picture, thought of his wife, his father, his team,and the whole world, seeing that, and felt himself shake with rage.

His fists clenched tightly to his sides, and he told himself not to react, not to rip down that picture like he wanted, not to give Jenkins ANYTHING, including the satisfaction of knowing he had got to Don.

Swallowing hard, Don rubbed his face, and realized this head and shoulders were covered with slime from the nasty trough water. He hesitated, then shrugged and picked up the half used water jug, and carefully dribbled the water over him to wash off the worst. Using a corner of the blanket, he dried himself off the best he could, trying to keep most of the blanket dry.

Don then drank from the other jug, and invesitgated the contents of the sack. As he had hoped, there was some food inside. Not much, chips, snack crackers and some candy bars, but at least it was something to eat.

Making himself as comfortable as possible, Don sat on the straw bales, sipping water and forcing himself to eat slowly, savoring every bite. He tried not to look at the pictures on the port-a-pot, even turning and facing the other direction.

Even though he wasn't looking at them, the pictures still silently mocked him. He felt himself flush with anger and shame when he thought about them. Don reminded himself there were two bright spots he should cling to. First, he had read about this method of torture being done in dirty toilets with the victim breathing in the contents of the toilet. He much preferred the trough water.

It occurred to Don that his private bathroom had to have some type of holding tank, and he was thankful Jenkins hadn't thought to use it. He prayed it wouldn't cross Jenkins' mind to use the holding tank.

The second bright spot was his brother and sister-in-law probably wouldn't see him starring on YouTube. Who would believe an FBI agent might actually be grateful to the fucking CIA?

_"You and Amita are packing up again? Where to this time, Oxford?"_

_"Need I remind you, I've already taught at Oxford. We are heading east, but not that far. Just to the east coast for a consulting job."_

_"Oh yeah, who for?"_

_"Sorry, that's classified," Charlie replied smugly. _

_But Amita immediately spoiled it by popping in and asking, "You ready to head for Langley?"_

_"Langley?" questioned Don. "You're kidding, right? You're not seriously consulting for the CIA?"_

_"They're paying very well for our expertise Don. You're aware I consult for a lot of different agencies, that includes the CIA. If you have a problem, that's you're problem."_

_"Fine, no problems here. What are you doing for the spooks?"_

_"Can't tell you, but we're not goung to be able to talk to you directly. All our calls and e-mails will be monitored."_

_After that, partly out of concern for Charlie and Amita, partly out of a desire to prove he could, Don made a point of finding out just what the two of them were doing for the CIA. Basically, they were doing some math formulas to help pinpoint some terrorist cells._

_The two of them were being put up in a bunker, and closely guarded. For all Charlie tried to act so mysterious, there was not going to be any James Bond and/or Sydney Bristow daring-do's from the undynamic duo._

Don let himself feel a little spurt of anger towards his brother, though he knew it was unfair. He understood that Charlie and Amita had their own lives and could consult for whomever they pleased. Still, he wished they hadn't left just when the Ramirez trial was ready to get underway.

Alberto Ramirez was the modern, Mexican equivalent of Pablo Escobar. He was based not far from Ciudad Juarez, and had pretty much taken over the city. He dealt in illegal drugs, guns, and whatever else was profitable. Unfortunately, most of his money was made north of the border.

Mexico had tried to shut him down, but every time the authorities moved against him, police officers, prosecutors, judges and their families ended up kidnapped, tortured, killed, or they simply vanished.

The DEA had managed to set a trap and arrest Alberto's brother Luis when he was in LA, and his trial was starting this week. Robin had been handed the job of chief prosecutor several months ago, and given the history of the Ramirez cartel, extraordinary efforts had been made to keep her identity secret.

Both Don and Robin had felt the strain, especially on top of planning their wedding. The wedding had gone off without a hitch (unless you counted Charlie choking over the toast), the couple had returned from their honeymoon, and Robin had thrown herself into preparing for the trial.

Both Robin and Don were tense as the trial date drew nearer, and Don would have appreciated the presence and support of his brother. He admitted, it irked him when he found out Charlie and Amita were leaving.

Of course, with Charlie and Amita in Virginia, that meant they couldn't help locate him. Surely by now they were looking for him? If they hadn't already started a manhunt, the YouTube videos would spark one.

As night fell, Don huddled in the thin blanket, and tried not to imagine what would happen tomorrow. He really couldn't have imagined it anyway.

_If anyone doesn't know who Pablo Escobar was, I suggest you watch a really good movie called Blow. It stars Johnny Depp, if that helps._


	4. Chapter 4

don't know chapter four

_Cissyaliza, thanks for reading. As for your question, there are 27 amendments to the US Constitution, and the first ten of these are called the Bill of Rights. (To the average American, The Bill of Rights is SACRED.) The Bill of Rights protects both freedom of speech and the freedom of the press, so no, neither state nor federal governments can shut down YouTube (although they would probably like to sometimes), unless it's posing a threat to national security. That being said, YouTube itself will usually remove offensive material, but usually only after millions of hits have already gone out. I do, in fact address this in the next chapter, which is already written and I'll try to post tomorrow. (By the way, I'll try, but I can't guarantee I'll post every day.)_

Don was awake before dawn, having slept fitfully. He used the toilet (hoping again that Jenkins wouldn't find other uses for it), ate a candy bar, drank some water, then paced.

Try as he might to reassure himself that Jenkins seemed intent on humilating him in painful ways rather than inflicting real damage, Don didn't feel much better. He acknowledged it was better to suffer temporary, embarrassing pain than to have long-term harm done, but he still felt a sense of dread.

Don was forceably reminded of having to wait for his father to come home to deliver a spanking when he was a child. While waiting, he was convinced nothing could be worse than waiting, and he told himself it would be a relief when he heard his father's car in the driveway.

However, when he actually heard his father come home, his terror would spike, and he would be frozen with fear. It was the same when he heard the sound of the vehicle coming back.

Don forced himself to sit on one of the bales, and breath deeply while he waited for Jenkins, Julio, and the other four men to enter the barn. His mouth felt dry, and he wished he had thought to get a drink when he had first heard the vehicle. He could, he supposed, go on over and get a drink now, but for some reason he wanted to be sitting calmly when Jenkins entered the barn.

The doors scraped open again, and Jenkins came in, saying, "Good morning Agent Eppes! Congratulations! You've already gotten millions of hits! The whole world's talking about you!

"Now, I know what you're thinking, fame's so fleeting, and everyone will forget about you by tonight, but not to worry! I've got another great show lined up!"

Jenkins came up to Don, smiling, "What? No comment."

Don glared at him, but refused to be goaded into talking. When the men surrounded and grabbed him, Don once more went limp, trying to save his energy.

They laid him face down across the bales of straw, which poked painfully into his stomach. His wrists were pulled over his head, and handcuffed around the post. Don's head and arms were over the edge of the bale, and he stared down at the dirt floor. His torso was lying across the bales, and his legs dangled over the opposite edge of the bales.

Don almost laughed. He had just been thinking about getting spanked, and now he here he was in practically the same across the knee position.

Jenkins moved into Don's sight, carrying the blanket and a brown grocery sack. Spreading the blanket on the floor, Jenkins sat cross legged in front of Don.

Jenkins rummaged in the grocery sack, pulling out, of all things, a ginger root. It was the biggest ginger root Don had ever seen, over six inches long, close to seven. Maybe Jenkins was going to fix Don a Chinese meal.

"What do you know about the Victorians, Agent Eppes?" asked Jenkins, while he examined the ginger root.

Puzzled, Don stayed silent.

Jenkins laughed, "They were really into corporal punishment, especially caning. To make it as painful as possible, they came up with figging."

Jenkins got out a small paring knife and a vegetable peeler. He started to carefully clean the ginger root while he continued , "Now, what's the first thing any child does when they're being spanked?"

Jenkins looked at Don expectantly, "Oh, don't tell me your parents were new age and used time outs instead! Well, if you were never spanked, I'll tell you; the child clinches up his butt cheeks.

"They do that to lessen the pain, of course. But the Victorians didn't like naughty children trying to lessen the pain, so they put a ginger root up the child's ass. The ginger root burns, you see, and the tighter the ass is clinched, the more it burns. To escape the burning, the child would try to relax his bottom as much as he could. But that made the strokes of the cane much more painful."

Was Don hearing Jenkins correctly? He was actually going to be spanked? How ridiculas coul you get?

Jenkins went on, "Do you remember the name Michael Fay? Back in 1994 in Singapore he was sentenced to receive six strokes with the cane. He sentence was reduced to four strokes. You're going to get double his original sentence, plus the four he actually got.

"I'll show you the cane in a few minutes. It's four feet long and 1/2 inch thick. It's been soaked in brine to make it flexible so it will sting more. It will rip your butt to pieces, cause bleeding, and leave permanent scars. I assure you, it will burn like a son of a bitch.

"Well, look at that," Jenkins held up the peeled ginger root, it looked like a long grotesque white finger.

"All ready for you agent! Now," Jenkins went on confidentially, "when I stick it up your ass, it will take a few minutes to feel anything. At first, there will just be a mild burning sensation. But after about five minutes, you should get the full effect. Unfortunately, it only lasts about twenty minutes.

"So that means I've got about fifteen minutes to administer sixteen strokes.

"But don't worry Agent Eppes!" Jenkins held up Don's own wristwatch. "I've got a very good watch to time all of this!

"Well, I don't want the ginger root to get dried out, so let's get started!"

Jenkins rose off the blanket and moved to Don's backside. Don felt the cheeks of his ass being spread apart, and the root being steadily shoved up him. It was thick and long and Don squirmed.

"Awww. Is my little fed enjoying himself?" mocked Jenkins. "You're getting this, aren't you Julio?"

"Si."

Furious and humbled, Don forced himself to hold still.

"All in!" announced Jenkins cheerfully. "Now we wait a few minutes. While we're waiting, I'm putting a cushion across your kidneys, so you don't have to worry about me damaging them. There! That should do! Oh, let me show you the cane!"

Jenkins came into Don's sight again carrying a rattan cane, that was pretty much as he described it. Jenkins swished the cane through the air and it made a whistling sound. Don felt himself shiver.

Jenkins checked the watch, "Four minutes! Feeling anything yet agent?"

Don was. He remembered once reading about some English king who was killed by having a red-hot poker shoved up his ass; Don thought he knew how that felt.

He could feel sweat pouring off him, and try as he might, he couldn't prevent his eyes from tearing.

"Five minutes! Time to get started! One stroke, every fifteen seconds, and sixteen strokes! Ready?"

Jenkins moved our of Don's sight. A couple of the men grabbed and held down Don's ankles, anchoring him firmly in place. Don felt the cane touch his buttocks briefly, then heard a swishing noise and the crack of the cane striking. A fiery pain shot across Don's bottom that caused him to gasp.

The second stroke came down and Don jerked. He couldn't believe anything could hurt so bad. By the time the third stroke came down Don's entire body was covered in sweat. He didn't know how he was going to endure thirteen more strokes.

At first Don was determined not to scream, but he lost that battle at stroke seven. He wasn't even sure what he was screaming, but was vaguely aware of noise coming out of his mouth.

Jenkins relentlessly counted off the strokes and Don would hear the swish of the cane, then pain would explode across his buttocks.

Throughout the whole ordeal, the ginger root kept burning him from the inside. It was just like Jenkins described, if Don tightened his buttocks in response to the cane, the ginger root burned worse. If he relaxed his muscles to avoid the sting of the figging, the cane cut worse. The Victorians were sadists.

Even after the caning was finished, the figging went on for a dozen more minutes, with Jenkins counting off every minute. The last few minutes, the intense burning thankfully diminished.

Finally, the root was removed, and the handcuffs taken off. Don laid limply where he was, feeling shamed, hurt, and exhausted.

"We're leaving now agent, but don't worry, we'll be back tomorrow! Have to post this. Do you think your wife will like it? Maybe she's a dominatrix and it will get her hot and bothered!

"We left you some fresh water, and more food, have a nice night!"

An with that, they were gone. Don dimly heard them drive away before he passed out.

_If anyone thinks all Don got was a harsh spanking, I invite you to look up images of judicial caning in Singapore. (You need a strong stomach.) There's some still pictures, and even a video of an actual caning. I should warn you, these images are very disturbing._

_Also, the Victorians really did fig people, but not just children. Wives and female servants were also figged than caned._


	5. Chapter 5

don't know chapter five

It was the flies that woke Don up this time. They were swarming all around him. They particularly were crawling over his lacerated buttocks, but some were milling around his face. He could feel them biting him.

Don tried to swat them away, but there were too many, and they hung around him, buzzing . He realized they were attracted to his sweat and blood, and staggering, he walked over to the water jugs to try and wash off.

The pain in his bottom was excruciating. Don felt weak and light-headed, and he leaned against the port-a-pot while he tried to clean the blood off. Then he used the port-a-pot.

He was thankful he only needed to piss. The very idea of even trying to sit down was unbearable.

Don grabbed a water jug and the bag of food and wrapped himself in the blanket, hoping to keep the flies at bay.

The feel of the rough blanket against his tender bottom was agonizing, but Don was afraid of the wounds getting inflected, so bore it as best he could. If he whimpered, no one was there to hear him.

Carrying the water and the food, he limped back to the straw bales, then stood stupidly, deciding what to do. Finally, he laid face down again across the bales, propped himself up on his elbows, and ate . He clumsily tipped the water into one cupped hand, and drank as best he could.

He spilled a lot of water, and food wrappers were scattered all around, but what the hell, he was living in a barn.

The flies were persistent, still buzzing around him and biting at him, even with the blanket covering his injuries.

When he was in middle school, Don read William Golding's Lord of the Flies for English class. Most of the other kids bitched about it, but Don secretly enjoyed it. (Math and science may have been Charlie's thing, but Don excelled at literature and history.)

The scene Don remembered most from Golding''s book was one boy staring at the pig's head on a stick while flies swarmed the head. True, Don was considerably better off than that poor pig, but he still felt a kinship to it.

Altogether, Don was one sore, miserable puppy. He cringed to think of what had been done to him being broadcast around the world. He tried to imagine Robin's reaction, and winced. If Alberto Ramirez wanted to distract and terrify the lead attorney against his brother, he was probably succeeding.

Too sore and tired to pace, he sprawled across the bales, and watched the streaks of sunlight change and gradually grow dimmer. Don reassured himself that Colby, Liz and Nikki were working hard to find him. That they had probably watched their boss get an ass whipping was a thought Don tried to avoid.

He also tried to avoid any thoughts as to what new torment was in store for him tomorrow. Don never really slept that night, but dozed lightly off and on.

When he heard the vehicle coming back the next day, he made himself stand on wobbly legs, clinging to the post.

Once more the barn doors scrapped open, and Jenkins came in cheerfully, announcing, "Good and bad news, Agent Eppes! You've got millions of hits, but YouTube shut down the site.

"Oh, but the real news, there's talk of Luis Ramirez's trial being postponed. Just talk so far, but we're encouraged! Maybe today's video will seal the deal!

"Of course, if it does, my sevices will no longer be needed, but not to worry! I'll get a nice bonus! Now what's going to happen to you, I have no idea."

Don stared at this handsome, heartless young man wordlessly.

Jenkins came up to Don, smiling, "How are you feeling, Agent Eppes? Did you have to eat your supper standing up? You ready for round three?"

Without waiting for an answer, Jenkins turned to one of the other man, "Go on and get the rope ready."

Don watched dully as one of the man climbed the ladder to the loft carrying a coil of rope. Hearing a noise overhead, he looked up and saw a trap door had been opened, exposing an old pulley. The rope was threaded through the pulley, and tossed down.

Don offered no resistence when his wrists were seized and tied. He was resigned when they hauled him in the air, wondering almost wearily what Jenkins had in mind this time.

His feet were dangling only a few inches off the floor when Jenkins surprised Don by grabbing hold of his nose, blocking his air passages. He opened his mouth in response, and Jenkins immediately shoved something in his mouth, while releasing Don's nose.

Before Don could process what was happening, duct tape was slapped across his lips. At the same time, Don's taste buds were registering what was in his mouth; a jalapeno pepper. The pepper was sliced open and the seeds and juices were filling Don's mouth and running down his throat.

Don jerked, and immediately felt himself break out in a sweat.

"You should see your face agent," said Jenkins. "It's bright red! You've got tears coming out your eyes, and snot coming out your nose! Make sure you get a good shot of that Julio!

"Okay boys, haul him up a few more feet, while I get the cattle prods!"

Cattle prods? Don's heart sunk. He was hauled a few feet off the floor, his arms and shoulders burning from the strain of his own weight.

Jenkins came back with five cattle prods, and everyone but Julio took one, than scattered in a circle around Don. They moved in on Don in no special order, shocking him with the cattle prods.

Don swung helplessly in midair, jerking as the prods were touched to his feet, legs, stomach, and worst, the gashes on his bottom, as well as his nipples and in between his legs.

The laughed and jeered, "Hey agent! Look out! I'm going for your ass! Whoops, looks like Miguel got your cock!"

"Hey! He's getting a hard-on! He likes this, don't you think?"

All the while, the hot pepper burned his mouth. Don could feel both tears and snot running down his face, and burned with shame that he could't even wipe himself clean.

An agonizing fifteen minutes later, Jenkins called, "That's enough! You got some good footage, right Julio? Let's get him down."

Don was lowered none to gently to the floor, and the duct tape was ripped off. Don got on all fours, pass caring about his diginity, and gagged and spit out the remains of the pepper. He stayed on all fours, breathing hard, while he listened to the men retrieve the rope and put out more water and food for him (like I'm some kind of fucking dog! he thought to himself).

Jenkins came up to him, "We're leaving now agent. Let's hope I won't need to be back tomorrow, or we'll have to try the holding tank of your potty instead of the horse trough. I'm sure that tank's pretty nasty by now!"

Laughing, the men left while Don tried to hide his revulsion.

After a few minutes Don gathered up his strength, retrieved his blanket and wrapped it around himself (damn flies!) and collapsed across the straw bales.

He was barely conscious when he heard a vehicle pull up and the barn doors open. Don felt a spurt of anger, it was too soon! Jenkins shouldn't return until tomorrow! Whimpering, Don buried his face into his arms, feeling betrayed.

"Don! Don, are you okay?"

_Colby? _

"Don, come on man, look at me. We're getting you out of here. Just take it easy," Colby had some bolt cutters and snapped the padlock off Don's ankle.

"Hey bossman," said Nikki, coming into view, "we've got an ambulance here. Try to relax, okay? We'll have you out of here soon."

"Robin?" Don croaked.

"She's pretty freaked out, but she's okay," Colby soothed. "Believe it or not, it was that math enemy of Charlie's that helped find you."

Don blinked, "Penfellow?"

"I thought his name was Penfield."

"Whatever," Don supposed he should care, especially since the guy had helped rescue him, but he just didn't have the energy.

"Dad?"

"Conncerned, but holding up."

Charlie?"

"Uh, haven't been able to talk to him. The CIA says what he's doing is too important." Colby's voice sounded bland.

Behind him, Nikki muttered, "Fucking spooks."

Don had to agree.

Colby rode with Don to the hospital, Don face down on the stretcher, and took notes of everything Don said.

"Don't worry, Don," Colby assured him. "We'll get them."


	6. Chapter 6

don't know chapter six

No one saw it coming. They all assumed it would be safe, and it SHOULD have been safe. Colby had informed Don on the way to the hospital that Robin had withdrawn from the case as soon as it was suspected that Ramirez had Don. It was what she was legally obligated to do, and Robin was nothing if not professional.

Besides, the trial was postponed because the shocking videos of Don had thrown everyone involved into a tailspin. Alberto Ramirez had set out to disrupt the US federal judicial system, and he had succeeded.

The ambulance had pulled up to the emergency room doors, and Don had been wheeled into the hospital, Colby still by his side.

Don was being admitted to the hospital because his wounds had become infected. He heard a commotion, and looking over saw, to his delight, Robin hurrying toward him. That's when Don felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he knew something was wrong.

He yelled out a warning at the same time as the one of the men in the waiting room opened fire. Colby immeditately returned fire; people in the ER were screaming and running for shelter. Colby dropped the shooter, but it was too late. Robin was already face down on the floor.

Don pulled the IV out, stumbled off the stretcher, and clad in the hospital gown the EMT's had slipped on him, rushed to his wife. She was gone. Don slumped by her side in silence, and stayed in that silence.

_They kept trying to get him to talk. Don didn't want to talk. Why couldn't they understand that and go away? But no, they were at him constantly, just as maddingly as those damn flies in the barn. _

_His father, his team, doctors, nurses, and eventually Charlie and Amita,were hanging around him, buzzing, droning on and on, "Don? Don? Are you okay? Can you hear me?"_

_Well of course he could hear them, there nothing was wrong with his ears. Just because he had nothing to say didn't mean his hearing wasn't right._

_He was tired, so tired. And he was choking. His mouth was filled with scummy water and hot peppers, and if he tried to talk he couldn't breath. The very idea of trying to say something that wouldn't sound like gibberish was exhausting._

_He couldn't think, couldn't even form a coherent sentence in his mind. His dad was upset, and he felt bad about that. Some distant part of him told him he should be sorry for worrying his father, but he was too tired to care._

_As for Charlie, Don found thoughts and feellings he never knew he had surfacing late at night, when he was all alone, that if he had had the strength to care he would have found disturbing._

_Childhood memories of being alone, of having to take care of himself when he had no idea HOW to take care of himself, inexplicably rose to consciousness. _

_Night after night, Don would mean to think of Robin, to plot revenge against Ramirez, and instead be consumed by an almost violent fury that his brother had stolen not only his mother, but his childhood from him._

_During the daytime the feelings would subside, and Don was mildly curious as why he was having these feelings. He decided all the trauma had shaken loose...well, something. _

_Bradford could probably make sense of it, explain it all to Don, but he lacked the energy to talk to Bradford. Oh yes, Bradford was pestering him as well. Honestly, didn't these people have anything better to do? _

_Underneath it all was a shadow that was watching, waiting, plotting, that Don was only vaguely aware of. He knew that shadow, remembered it from when he was determined to get Megan back from Chrystal Hoyle._

_It wasn't until Megan was yapping about Charlie that the shadow solidified and he realized he had a plan firmly in place, one his subconscious had been working on all along._

_For all he said 'Bradford' to Megan, he didn't need, or want to talk to Bradford. Don understood, deep in his bones, that his conscious mind had simply shut down. It was a way to deal with the trauma of the degrading things that had been done to him and to endure Robin's death. _

_But more importantly, it was a way to let plot a revenge that his conscious mind might have tried to derail._

_But he had to talk to Bradford, because talking was the key to getting out of here, and Don was suddenly ready to get out of the hospital and start implementing his revenge._

He went about it slowly, there was no rush after all. Not long after he started talking, he was finally released from the hospital, and it was only afterwards that Don understood he had come damn close to being put in the psych ward.

He went to his brother's house, and let everyone fuss over him. Don honestly felt bad by all the negative thoughts he had had about Charlie, but was grateful for them at the same time.

It gave him something to tell Bradford, cause he sure as hell didn't want to talk to ANYONE about Robin. What he felt about Robin was deep and private, and belonged to Don alone. So he told Bradford about his nightly anger against Charlie instead. Bradford honestly did help deal with those thoughts.

_"Why would what happen to you in the barn trigger angry memories of your childhood?"_

_"You're the doctor, aren't you suppose to tell me?"_

_"I want your thoughts, Don. What was similar about your childhood and the barn?"_

_"Hell, I don't know. I mean, Jenkins just told me what was going to happen, but I obviously had no say. My feelings were completely unimportant! It was like when Mom and Dad told me Charlie was special, and I had to take care of myself because Charlie needed all of Mom's time. _

_"Nobody cared that I needed Mom! My feelings were unimportant!"_

_Don suddenly realized what he had just said, and stared at Bradford, "You're good."_

It was Liz who told him how Charlie and Amita had told off the CIA. When the two had finally finished their work, the agent in charge of guarding them told them what had happened to Don, and informed them of Robin's death.

The blow-up that followed was already becoming the stuff of legends. Charlie and Amita had 'walked up one side of the spook and down the other' (Liz's words) and informed the CIA they would never consult for them again. They had even refused to let the CIA fly them back to the west coast.

Don couldn't help feeling pleased. He couldn't admit to Charlie all the unfair, bad thoughts he had, but he tried to be extra nice to Charlie. He suffered through Charlie's coddling without complaint.

_"Are you sure you're up to going to CalSci with me Don? Why do you want to go anyway?"_

_"I want to thank your math friend, or enemy or whatever, for helping find me."_

_Don pretended not to notice Charlie's frown (Charlie was NOT happy Penfield had been the one to locate Don), "You mean Penfield?"_

_"I thought his name was Penfollow," replied Don, who was rewarded with Charlie's laughter._

Don was put on extended leave by the Bureau, and meekly accepted it. He also accepted not being allowed access to the Ramirez files.

Everyone was pleased at how well he was overcoming all the trauma. Don did what he was suppose to do and said what he was suppose to say. No one but him knew it was all a surface act, and there was a shadow deep inside who was plotting and planning.

Megan may have guessed. She watched him, puzzled and concerned, but Don managed to avoid any tete-a-tete with her, and was relieved when she finally went back east.

No one could be in the FBI as long as Don without knowing ways to access information he wasn't suppose to have, and that included the Ramirez file.

Don slowly and patiently put together his plan, painstakingly researching everything he could about Alberto Ramirez. He also waited for his body to heal. He was still sleeping on his stomach, but at least he could sit without wincing.

Jenkins was easy, insultingly so. His full name was Ashley Jenkins McComb. (Jenkins was his mother's maiden name.) Gone with the Wind aside, Don could understand why any man with the first name of Ashley would choose to go by his middle name.

Jenkins wasn't lying about being paid to hurt people. It was how he supported himself. There's a sub-culture of people into that sort of thing, and they advertise on the internet and in magazines.

Until a few years ago, Jenkins had worked in El Paso, promising to fulfill 'your dreams of being forced into submission'. Since it was between consenting adults and there was no actual sex involved it was legal.

However, when a boyfriend paid Jenkins to force his girlfriend into submission while boyfriend watched, it turned out the girlfriend wasn't consenting.

And when the police starting investigating Jenkins, it turned out some of his consenting clients weren't adults. Jenkins had packed up and moved south of the border.

Rumor was he struck up a deal with Ramirez, and had hidden cameras recording everything Jenkins did to his clients for Alberto's pleasure. If the stories were true, Senor Ramirez was a voyeur who liked S/M.

Jenkins was safely across the border, and though the US had tried to extradite him, Jenkins was under the protection of Ramirez and the Mexican authorities were afraid to move against Jenkins. But Don wasn't.

Finally, he felt ready to act, and he sent a message to an old friend, 'Where are you?'

It wasn't long before the reply came back, 'Where do you need me to be?'

Don smiled.


	7. Chapter 7

don't know chapter seven

"I'm thinking of getting away for awhile. Maybe riding my bike up the coast, taking some time to myself."

Alan, scrambling eggs for breakfast, paused, "Do you think that's wise?"

His eyes probed his firstborn. True, Don was moving (and sitting) much easier, but he was still too thin, and dark shadows ringed his eyes.

Don concentrated on pouring the juice for breakfast, "Just for a few days Dad. Probably a week at most."

"Are you sure you can ride your bike? It won't be painful?"

Don struggled to keep from smiling, his father had given him the perfect opening.

"Good point. I think I'll take a test run today for a few hours to see how I do."

"Well, it is good to see you interested in your old hobbies."

"Riding my bike was a hobby? Yeah, I guess it is. Anyway, I just need some quiet time to think things through."

"Donnie, if you want to talk..."

"Yeah, I know, your ear is always open. Thanks Dad, really. I appreciate it. And I promise I'll keep that in mind."

Don took a deep breath, and decided he might as well go for broke. "I also appreciate all the help you, Charlie and Amita have given me, but it's time for me to go back to my home. I need to try and get on with my life."

"You're doing this all at once?"

"Well, the trial bike ride first. After that, we'll see."

The ride did feel good. Well, okay, it hurt his rear end, but it was nice to be away from the suffocating concern of his father and brother.

He didn't ride up the coast as he had told his father (it wasn't the first time he had lied to his dad), but instead to the Valley.

After the wedding, he and Robin had rented an apartment they found together, agreeing they would do better with a third, neutral site as opposed to living in her house or his apartment. Don had it easy, he just didn't renew his lease.

Robin owned her house outright, and had put it up for sale; then the real estate market went belly-up. Shortly before she died, Robin had taken the house off the market, and she and Don had meant to discuss just living there since they couldn't seem to sell it.

Don pulled his bike into the garage, hesitated, then entered the house. He wasn't so much afraid of Robin's ghost, as painful memories. But the house was empty of all furniture, and the walls had been painted an off-white that had been recommended by the real estate agent.

The house had been stripped of all signs of Robin, it was just an empty, fairly pretty house. Looking around, Don realized with a shock that he owned it. He cocked his head, could he live here?

Before he could really think about it, he heard a car horn in the driveway. Looking out the window, he saw a black SUV in the driveway and went out to greet the driver.

"Hey! It's good to see you! Did you have any trouble finding the place?"

"I wasn't the one always getting lost, Eppes. That was you."

"Ha ha. Come on in, not that there's any place to sit."

"Floor's fine," replied Coop. The two of them sprawled on the floor, Billy leaning against the wall, long legs stretched out in front of him. Don laid on his stomach (he sometimes wondered if he would ever sleep on his back again), propped up on his elbows. Cooper examined his former partner.

"How are you doing Donnie?"

"Don't ask."

"That good, huh?"

"Yeah, well," Don shrugged, hesitated, then plowed on.

"Coop, I have a favor to ask, but it's , well," deep breath, "I really don't have any right to ask this..."

Coop interupted him, "When do we leave for Mexico?"

Don felt relief flood him, but he felt obliged to point out, "You know we have no jurisdiction there? Not only would we be on our own, with no back-up, but we'll be in really deep shit if we're caught."

"Well then, we'll just have to make damn sure we don't get caught, won't we?"

Don grinned, "Coop, I seriously love you."

"Try to kiss me and you'll be eating your teeth," warned Coop.

"There is one thing though," Coop said, then stopped. He looked askance at Don.

Sounding more calm than he felt, Don said, "Go ahead, say it."

"I don't get it! Why kill Robin! It doesn't make any sense! " argued Billy. "She had already withdrawn from the trial. She had to, when she suspected the defendant's brother had kidnapped her husband.

"And the trial had been postponed! Everyone was freaking out! The judge, the lawyers, the witnesses, all of them were scared spitless because of the YouTube," here, Coop stumbled over his words.

"Because of the YouTube videos of me," said Don steadily. " Trust me, I know. I've already thought all of this."

"So, you come to any conclusions you care to share?"

Don shrugged, "The only thing that makes sense is Ramirez thinks he can do to the US what's he done to Mexico, make everyone too terrified to move against him."

"So humilating you and killing Robin was just Ramirez trying to scare everybody. Yeah, that makes sense. Bastard."

Don took a deep breath, "There's more. I talked to the math guy, Penfield, who helped find me, and it wasn't that hard to find me. "

Billy's eyebrows rose, "You mean your brother, the math whiz, didn't help?"

Don tried hard to make his voice sound noncommital, "He was incommunicado in Langley."

There was a moment of silence while Cooper digested this, "Ouch."

"Yeah, well, the point is, they meant for me to be found. And it was a pretty safe bet which hospital I'd be rushed to. Nobody thought Robin needed protection, because she was already off the case."

"You were the bait, they were gunning for her all along."

"It's a favorite technique of Ramirez. He targets the prosecutors so they're reluctant to bring charges against his cartel. Or at best, only put up a token trial."

"And without the lawyers filing charges against the criminals, why should the cops even bother to make an arrest," agreed Coop. "Makes sense."

"And lawyers are easy targets, they don't shoot back."

There was a minute's silence, then Coop asked, "So, what's the plan?"

"We can't take ANYTHING that's government issue. Our guns, vehicles, cell phones, nothing. I'm still on medical leave. You have any problem getting off?"

"Are you kidding? The Bureau owes me so much vacation time I could take the next decade off."

"So why don't you?" inquired Don.

"Same reason you don't, I'd get bored. Anyway, don't worry about it, I've already put in for my time off."

"You were that sure of me gunning for Ramirez? Damn, I hope no one else figures it out."

"They won't, no one else knows you like I do. Oh, I'm not saying I know you better than like your dad or brother, but they see you different and know you different.

"I know you as my loco ex-partner who in Louisiana jumped across a six foot alligator to catch an escaped felon. Myself, I was rooting for that damned 'gator to munch the guy."

Don laughed, "Yeah, I'd just as soon my dad and brother never hear THAT story. They would try to have the men in the little white jackets take me away!"

"So," continued Coop, "untracable guns, throw away phones, and an old beater. Anything else?"

"Fake ID's and passports," answered Don.

Cooper slanted him a look, "We're going through customs? You do know the Mexican border is a joke, right?"

"Yeah, but if we get stopped by the authorities, I want the right papers. I really don't want to cool my heals in a Mexican prison, and I can't shoot it out with local cops."

"Fair enough. Okay, let's divide up who does what, and pick a time to pack and leave. We better pick some place to practice with our new guns though."

"Som place in Arizona or New Mexico will do," answered Don, checking his watch.

He sighed, "I better get back. My dad and brother are probably pacing and worrying. So let's decide who does what and meet back here in two days, agreed?"

"Agreed."


	8. Chapter 8

Don't Know chapter eight

Don was prepared for his father to give him grief about leaving, but didn't expect Charlie to raise a fuss. But his little brother stood in the doorway watching Don pack a backpack with dark troubled eyes.

"Where are you going?"

"I told you, Charlie, I don't know."

"Then why leave?"

"It's not for long, Buddy. I just need to get away for awhile."

"You're mad at me, aren't you? Amita and I shouldn't have gone to Langley. We should have told the CIA no and stayed here."

"Charlie, no. I'm not mad, and you being here probably wouldn't have changed anything. Look Buddy, don't do this. I just...need to think. That's all."

"If I had been here you might have been found sooner."

"What?" asked Don. "You don't think Penfield is as good as you?"

Charlie deadpanned, "I thought his name was Penfellow."

Alan kept trying to pack up food for him.

"Dad, honest, I'll just stop and pick up some fast food when I get hungry."

"Just some sandwiches Donnie. And fresh fruit. Your body is still healing, you need plenty of vitamins."

It was a relief to finally get away, drive to Robin's (no, his, HIS house, he needed to get use to thinking that), and drop the act. Don was so tired of the act, of pretending he was okay, and not burning with rage.

He didn't need to put up an act for Coop, Billy understood.

They parked Don's motorcycle and Coop's SUV in the garage, packed up the old Buick Regal they had picked up, and headed southeast.

"Did you have to pick an old lady's car?" asked Don.

"Hey, it was cheap, and it has a good engine. Just listen to it."

"Listen to what?"

"See, you can't hear it. I told you it was a good engine."

"Just how cheap was it?"

Coop shrugged, "Don't worry about it."

"No, we're doing this on my dime. I'm paying for everything."

"The FBI must be paying you a lot better than they are me."

"Actually, Robin had some money she had inherited from her grandmother. It's mine now, and I can't think of a better way to spend it than getting her murderer."

"Fair enough, okay, I'll give you an exact accounting when we're done."

They took turns driving, easily falling back into old habits from the days when the two of them had been each other's constant companion. They stopped in deserted areas to stretch their legs, and to get familiar with unfamiliar guns.

Finally they pulled into a cheap motel to spend the night. They were eating the roast beef sandwiches Alan had packed and watching a ballgame neither one was interested in, when someone knocked at the door.

Don and Coop looked at each other.

"You expecting company?" asked Billy.

Don went to answer the door, praying it wouldn't be Charlie. It wasn't.

"Hey Eppes, you going to invite me in?"

"How did you find us?"

Ian Edgerton gave him an incredulous look, "You're kidding, right?"

Don sighed and opened the door, "You better come in.

"Ian, Billy Cooper, Coop, Ian Edgerton."

The two shook hands, And Coop asked , "The bastard son of Clint Eastwood and Yoda?"

"Well, the bastard part is true anyway," Ian replied.

"Why are you here, Ian?" asked Don.

"I want to come play with you guys."

Don scowled, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about Mexico, I want to come with you."

"Who's going to Mexico?"

"Come on, Eppes," wheedled Ian. "Let me in."

"No."

"Aww, come on. I've already put in for a vacation. You don't expect to do some lame-ass camping while you two are having fun dancing around with Ramirez."

Don shook his head, "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah you do. Come on Eppes, let me play. I've got a fake ID, unregistered guns..."

"NO!"

"You need me."

"No we don't."

"You need the water jug and long chain I have."

Don and Coop thought about that, then looked at each other.

"Now why didn't we think of that?" drawled Billy.

"We can still pick those up," said Don testily.

"Look Eppes," said Ian, "I'll just follow you, so you might as well let me in."

"Might want to consider it Donnie. We could use another man," suggested Cooper.

Ian grinned at Coop, "Of course you could. Listen to your ex-partner, Eppes. He's got some comman sense."

"No he doesn't. If he did, he wouldn't be here. And if you had any sense at all, YOU wouldn't be here. You two do realize our chances of surviving are nil to none?" said Don, sourly.

"Add me, and you increase your chances of surviving," shot back Ian. "If the math professor was here, he could tell you just how much you increase the odds."

Don grimaced, "Don't even think that. The last thing I need is Charlie here."

"I'm with you there," said Billy. "When you're ass deep in trouble, you don't need to babysit someone who can't take care of himself. But from what I've heard, Ian Edgerton can more than take care of himself."

Don caved. Ian snagged a sandwich (Alan, as usual, had made enough for an army), and the three of them sprawled around the motel room while Don and Coop filled Ian in on everything they knew about Ramirez.

The next morning they took off early, Ian following in his boat, an Oldsmobile 88, and Don smirked that they looked like a mini-caravan of old ladies.

They crossed the border that evening. They had already mapped out the way to where Jenkins lived, and Don, arms crossed and leaning against the car, watched Coop and Ian play roshambo to see which one would play Jenkins' client.

Ian went with paper and Billy countered with scissors. Coop laughed, "You wanted to play." Don and Coop listened while Ian put on a good show over the phone.

"Well, um, I've never done anything like this. How does it work?" When Jenkins suggested Ian come to his place to discuss it, Ian acted reluctant.

"How do I know I can trust you? What if I want you to stop? Yeah, I know about safe words, but, I don't know, maybe I should think about this." Finally, Ian let himself be persuaded. Closing the phone, Ian smiled, "All set."

About an hour later, Jenkins opened his door to Ian's knock, "Edward Fox? Please come in."

In no way resembling the nervous client Jenkins was expecting, Ian stalked in.

Jenkins eyed him, obviously surprised, "Tell you what Edward, why don't we go down to my basement, I'll show you what I've got, and then we'll talk it over."

"Oh, I don't think so," Ian replied. "Downstairs is where the hidden camaras are, right? This visit isn't going to be recorded."

Jenkins gaped at Ian, "What? I assure you, I value my client's privacy."

"Not as much as you value Ramirez's money and protection."

"Look, I don't know what you've heard, but I swear everything will be confidential," protested Jenkins.

"You're right," said Ian. "Everything WILL be confidential. Trust me, Ramirez is never going to find out about this little conversation."

"Who?"

Ian shook his head, "Don't play dumb Jenkins. Everyone knows Ramirez has deep pockets. That's where he keeps you."

"Mr. Fox, I don't know what you're talking about, but I think you should leave."

Ian gestured to the door, "Lead the way."

Jenkins strode to the door, and flung it open, the next instant Coop was through the door and had Jenkins in a chokehold. Jenkins struggled to get away.

"What are you doing? What do you want? Money?"

"Relax," replied Ian, "we have a mutual friend in comman."

Jenkins stared at Ian, bewildered, "Who are you talking about?"

Don walked in, "Hello Jenkins. Remember me?"

_Edward Fox is an actor who played a sniper in a 1973 film called Day of the Jackel. _


	9. Chapter 9

Don't Know chapter nine

Jenkins looked ready to faint.

"Oh, I think he remembers you Eppes, don't you Jenkins? Or should I call you Ashley?"

Coop jumped in, "I'm guessing your mom was a big fan of Gone with the Wind. Someone should have told her Rhett's the cool one."

"Yeah," Ian agreed. "Ashley's a spineless little weasel. How about you, Jenkins? You got any backbone?"

Don decided he should contribute, "He's probably got a lot of canes and whips around. Maybe even some ginger root. We could use those on him and see how he does."

Jenkins was sniveling, "No, no ...you can't." He looked at Don, "You're an FBI agent. You can't do this."

"And yet, here we are, doing this," replied Don. "Oh, meet Agents Cooper and Edgerton."

"But" Jenkins argued, "you can't arrest me. We're in Mexico. Your badges aren't valid here."

Don, Ian and Billy all looked at each other, then chorused, "Badges? We don't need no stinking badges!"

Jenkins obviously didn't get the reference, and Don shook his head sadly, "Kids these days. No respect for the classics."

Coop nodded, "Can't trust a man who's not a Bogie fan."

Ian smirked at Jenkins, "If we were nice, we would make some popcorn and rent The Treasure of the Sierre Madre to get you up to speed. But guess what? We're not nice. In fact, we're about the three biggest pricks you'll ever meet."

Jenkins was sweating and trying to squirm away from Coop, "Please, I just did what Ramirez paid me to do. It was him! He was the one who did everything!"

"It was him?" queried Don. "That's funny, I don't remember him in that barn."

"I have to do what he wants! I did't have a choice!"

"Trust me," Ian told him. "You always have a choice. Maybe not a good choice, but a choice. And you made a very bad choice."

"You were dumb, Ashley, really dumb," said Don. "I can understand Ramirez thinking he could get away with pushing around the authorities in the US like he does here, but you're an American. You had to know better.

"You should have warned him. You should have told him torturing and killing feds was a bad idea. You should know that killing feds just gets you a whole bunch fo pissed off feds who want to fry your ass."

"I DID! I did tell him! He wouldn't listen to me!" screamed Jenkins.

Don reached for Jenkins in a blind rage, but Ian immediately grabbed Don, hissing, "Easy Eppes! He'll get his, but right now he's still useful."

Don took a deep breath, nodded slightly, and walked away to get himself under control. Coop and Ian could handle Jenkins anyway.

They did; the two of them tag teamed Jenkins as smoothly as if they had rehearsed the act. Jenkins was confused, looking back and forth frantically between the two agents, and Coop went first.

"You don't get it do you, Ashley? You just admitted discussing the murder of a federal prosecutor."

Ian took over, "That's a capital crime, Ashley. You know what that means, don't you?"

Coop leaned in close, "That means you get a nice, oneway ticket to scenic Terre Haute, Indiana."

Jenkins was blubbering, "Ter...Terre Haute? What's in Terre Haute?"

Ian grinned, "The federal death chamber, what else?"

"That's right," Coop agreed. "Just think, you'll get to see upclose and personal where Timothy McVeigh bought it. Of course, you'll see it right before you die, so you won't get to brag much."

Jenkins was shaking so bad they could practically hear his teeth rattle, "NO! NO! You can't! You can't drag me back to the States!"

Ian patted Jenkins' cheek, "Relax, will you? We're not returning you to the States."

Jenkins looked hopeful, "You're not?"

"Naw," said Coop. "That would be time consuming. Not to mention it would cost the American tax payers a whole lot of money."

Ian nodded, "The economy's so bad, we're just going to do everyone a favor and act as your judge, jury, and executioner. Oh, by the way, you've been found guilty."

"And you've been sentenced to death," Billy added.

"Now we just have to figure the manner of your execution!" said Ian, cheerfully. "However, before we get to that, you're going to make yourself useful and tell us everything you know about Ramirez."

"You can start by giving us a detailed description of his compound," suggested Coop.

"I...I can't do that! Ramirez will kill me!" protested Jenkins.

Ian and Cooper regarded him silently for a moment, then looked at each other.

"Did he just miss the part where he's sentenced to die?" asked Coop.

Ian put his hands on Jenkins' shoulders, "Ashley, you need to calm down. There's no need to be afraid of Ramirez. I assure you Ramirez WILL NOT kill you. You can only die once, and WE'RE going to kill you."

Jenkins totally lost it then, he collapsed to the floor in a heap, trembling and crying. Ian and Coop had to haul him back to his feet, and he hung between them whimpering over and over, "Please...please...please..."

Don had himself back in control, and said harshly, "We don't please. One way or another you will tell us what we want to know. If you want it the hard way, that's fine with me, in fact, I prefer it.

"We'll just find your bathroom. I feel a good shit coming on."

That did it for Jenkins, he told them everything he could about Alberto Ramirez, and even drew a crude map of the compound.

Looking over the map the three agents discussed weak points while Jenkins whined and begged for his life. Finally, Coop got so sick of hearing it that he hog-tied Jenkins and found some duct tape.

"Shut-up!" he advised Jenkins, "Or I'll shut you up!"

"Hold on," said Don. "I want to heck out his fridge."

Ian and Coop exchanged looks.

"Uh, Eppes, you're not looking for a ginger root, are you? Not that I would blame you if you were," hastily added Ian.

"Don't tempt me," replied Don, rummaging through the refrigerator. He triumphantly pulled out a hot pepper.

Jenkins tried his damndest to keep them from putting it in his mouth, but they held him down and forced it in. Ian had some duct tape ready and taped his mouth shut. After that they dumped Jenkins in a corner and went on discussing their plans.

"The compound is out in the open, so it's harder to sneak up on them," observed Ian.

Don remembered Clay Porter making the same observation once, "Jenkins is a frequent visitor. We'll use his car and aim it at the gates as a distraction."

"We can follow in the other two car and flip their lights off. At night, they'll have a hard time seeing them if the cars are running dark," suggested Coop.

Agreeing on a strategy, they put all their supplies in the Regal, than prepared the Oldsmobile and Jenkins' Camero. They threw Jenkins in the trunk of the Olds and checked over their equipment.

Ian pulled Don aside and pressed something in his hand, "Look Eppes, I know about you almost dying, and well, you may not like this, but I think you should have it anyway. You're the one most likely to be in a situation where you can't use a gun tonight."

'This' was a KaBar marine combat knife with a wicked 7inch long blade. Don stared at it and had a sudden flashback to the sickening disbelief of feeling a knife blade cut through his side. He wondered if he could bear to be on the opposite end of the knife, shoving it into someone else.

For the first time, Don was swept with doubt. A tiny, little sane part of him was whispering, 'What the fuck are you doing Eppes? Really? You're going rogue?'

Don's hand closed around the knife handle while he struggled to breathe. He had come down to Mexico, drug his two best friends south of the border with him, and was about to take on a fucking criminal warlord.

He had been right back in that motel room when he said they had virtually no chance of coming out alive. Even if they all managed to somehow survive, their lives could be in shambles.

Okay, Don's life already was in shambles, but Billy and Ian could, at best, be throwing away their lives in the FBI. He had asked Coop, and Coop had come, and he hadn't really tried that hard to dissuade Ian. Yes, they were adults, and responsible for their own decisions, but they both had answered the siren call of friendship for a fellow agent.

Don was the only one could end this here and now, who could say, 'Hey guys, this is insane. Let's forget it.'

Instead, he tightened his hand around the knife handle, and said, "Thanks."

_Two notes here, first, Colby references the Treasure of the Sierre Madre in Finders Keepers._

_The second might be TMI, but I thought I'd add this curtesy note for non-Americans in case they are confused by the Terre Haute reference. While I like the episode 12:01 A.M., as an American I knew all along it was impossible because there are no death chambers in the LA area. (This is the only time I can think of that Numb3rs made a glaring mistake.)_

_Perhaps I should explain that in the US, two levels of government can pass the death sentence: the federal government and the individual state governments. Not all states have the death penalty, but California does. The state death chamber is in San Quentin prison on the San Francisco Bay. (Nowhere NEAR LA.) The federal death chamber is inTerre Haute, Indiana. Timothy McVeigh was the Oklahoma City bomber._


	10. Chapter 10

Don't Know chapter ten

Ian drove the Camero, Billy was in the Olds (Jenkins still in the trunk), and Don took the Buick.

The Ramirez compound sat out by itself, all the land around it clear. It was ringed with an electric fence and powerful lights on posts, so it resembled a prison on the outside.

The main house, where Alberto Ramirez lived, was in the center of the compound, surrounded by more open ground. Roughly a dozen outbuildings were scattered on the outskirts near the fence.

When Don, Coop, and Ian got the first glimpse of the compounds lights, they all cut their car lights. Ian rolled slowly up the main road, parked Jenkins car, and started hauling out equipment.

Don and Coop left the road, Don heading left, and Coop right. Here, the open ground aided them. While it was bumpy and rough driving off the road with no lights, there were few obstacles to worry about.

Don drove slowly and carefully. If they survived, they would need the Buick . Billy was less careful, the Olds was toast anyway, and he was happy to think Jenkins was having a rough time.

Don parked out of reach of the lights, and got out the water jug and heavy chain. He was going to be horribly exposed running up to the fence, but hopefully the distractions they had planned would work.

Don flipped open his phone, "Ian, I'm ready."

"So's Coop. I just talked to him," replied Ian. "Okay, let's do this."

Ian had rigged the steering wheel of the Camero to more or less drive in a straight line. Now he flipped on the lights and started the engine. Jumping out of the car, he wedged a two by four against the gas pedal, put the gear shift into to drive, and threw a lit lighter into the back seat before the car took off.

Earlier, he had soaked the back seat of the Camero with gas, so the car burst into flames as it rolled down the road. It slammed into the main gate, engulfed in flames.

The Olds was getting similar treatment from Billy, except it was aimed at a random part of the fence. Coop had opened the trunk and described everything he was doing to Jenkins, and why. Jenkins was so frightened that he soiled himself.

Cooper felt no sympathy for him. Like most of the rest of the world, he had watched the YouTube videos in shock. But unlike most of the other millions who watched, Billy knew the victim.

Coop had been both horrorified and furious at what his best friend was going through. Ian had wanted to drive the Olds, but Billy had insisted on the honors. He understood that Don and Ian had become friends, but his claim to Eppes was older and deeper.

Now Coop stood looking at the man who had degraded his ex-partner so viciously, and wished he had it in him to kill another human being in cold blood. Instead, he hauled Jenkins out, dumped him on the ground, and left him there hog-tied and hot peppered.

Don stood in the shadows watching the guards behind the fence. With the spotlights shining down, they were clearly visable. Although the burning cars were out of his sight, Don could tell they were getting the attention of those inside the compound.

He could heard excited shouting, and see the men gesturing before they took off running, presumably toward the burning cars.

Don took a deep breath and popped a stick of gum in his mouth. This was it. If anyone had been watching, Don was in open view when he ran up to the fence carrying the water jug and the chain looped around his shoulder.

Fortunately, everyone in the compound's attention was centered on the burning cars.

Don carefully sat the jug down, kicking the dirt a little to make sure it was stable. He dropped on end of the chain into the water. Taking hold of the other end, he reverted back to his teen years when he dreamed of pitching for the Yankees, muttering aloud, "Eppes step up to the mound, here's the wind-up, here's the pitch..." Don hurled the chain over the top of the fence, and dived away from the water can.

The fence exploded in hisses and pops, blue sparks raced down the chain, and the spotlights flickered wildly before blacking out. Inside the compound a siren starting blaring, and the shouts of the men inside escalated.

The outer lights going out had plunged the compound into relative darkness, but the inner buildings were on a different circuit, and still had lights.

Using wire cutters, Don cut a hole in the fence, slipping inside and heading for the small shed that housed all the circuit breakers for the compound. Breathing a sigh of relief that the guard had evidently abandoned his post, Don slipped inside and searched for the main switch.

He turned on a small flashlight and pulled down the main switch; the darkness in the compound was complete. Don took a few minutes to cut the wires, he didn't want the electricity to inconveniently come back on.

Switching off the penlight, he stepped back outside to almost total darkness. There were stars visible, and a crescent moon, but visibility was poor. Don realized this could work to his advantage in covering the open area between the main house and the outer buildings.

He remembered how Kevin Oliver had escaped a FBI net by impersonating an agent. If an eighteen year kid could do it in broad daylight, surely he could manage the same in almost complete darkness.

Don stepped boldly into the open area that was filled with frantic men milling around and shouting in Spanish. Don didn't really speak Spanish, but he grew up in southern California and had lived in New Mexico. Nobody can be exposed to that much Spanish without picking up a little.

The men were panicked and trying to figure out who was attacking them. A few were trying to organize a defense.

Both blessing and cursing his heritage, Don joined the crowd. He was small with dark hair, which blended in with the others, but he was naturally pale. Even working as a life guard as a teenager hadn't ever given him a deep tan.

Hoping no one noticed an unusually pale hispanic he casually made his way to the back of the house, while most of the others were scrambling for the front.

Coop had also cut his way into the compound and was watching the choas in the courtyard in front of the main house. He was way too tall and fair to consider joining the crowd, but he didn't need to, the main house wasn't his objective.

He made for the smaller outer buildings, looking for the gun supply they were sure Ramirez had. He was hoping to keep Ramirez's men from arming. He found a heavily padlocked building marked EXPLOSIVOS. He didn't need to know Spanish to translate that.

"Bingo," he whispered, and set to work.

Ian had set up a snipers nest outside the main gate. With an infra-red scope, he watched the men anxiously gathering around the still smoldering Camero. Picking out one target that looked like a leader, he gently pulled the trigger, and watched with satisfaction as the man jerked and grabbed his leg. Being shot in the kneecap hurt like a bitch.

The other men were scattering in fear, and Ian started picking out other targets to add to the fear and confusion.

Don, meanwhile, had found an unguarded back door. He tried looking in the window, but it was too dark to make out anything. The door was locked, but only with a cheap, relative easy lock to pick.

Hoping the door didn't open to a roomful of men, he carefully eased the door open and listened. He could hear faint shouting from some distant part of the house, but nothing else. Holding his breath, he slid inside as quietly as possible, then paused to listen again.

After a moment. his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and Don could vaguely make out the features of where he was. Not surprisingly, he was in a kitchen. Standard kitchen equipment lined the walls, and a butcher block island sat in the middle of the room, not far from where he stood.

Don was just debating the wisdom of risking the penlight, when he heard footsteps and a voice calling out in something in Spanish. Through an open door on the opposite wall he could see the beam of a powerful flashlight.

As silently as possible, Don ducked for the block island, and tucked himself tight behind it. He hoped the person with the flashlight would walk on by the kitchen, but wasn't really surprised when the beam of the light swept the kitchen.

Daring a peak when the light was aimed in another direction, Don could only make out a vague outline behind the flashlight, but it was enough.

Don had educated himself well on Alberto Ramirez. The criminal had two personal bodyguards who were almost as notorious as their boss. They were huge, at least 6'5", and were built like NFL linebackers. This was one of them.

Don's heart sunk. He pulled out the combat knife and looked at the blade, and knew he couldn't do it. He would have to be literally fighting for his life to sink a blade into human flesh. He couldn't possibly do it as a sneak attack. Resheathing the knife, Don decided on another strategy.

Don balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, remembering his training from Quantico on hand-to-hand combat. He would only get one shot at this, he had to get it right.

Don had no doubt the bodyguard would check out the butcher block island, it was an obvious place for an intruder to hide. The bodyguard must have heard Don enter the kitchen, and was doing what he was paid to do by seeing if anyone was there.

Don waited to he saw the guard's leds, then pushing up hard with his legs, and getting all his body weight behind the blow, he shoved hard with his fist into the solar plexis of the body guard. Don heard the man gasp, then his body went lax, all his weight falling heavily on Don.

Remembering just in time, Don srambled to grab the flashlight before it could fall out of the guard's hand. Don didn't want any loud noises alerting anyone else.

Lowering the guard to the floor, Don pulled some plastic ties out of his pocket, and secured the guard's hands behind his back. He stuffed a dishrag into the guard's mouth, then he secured his feet.

Flipping off the powerful flashlight, but keeping a hold of it, he moved cautiously through the open door. No one else seem to be around, and Don risked switching on the flashlight for a minute to see where he was.

He was in a small hallway, one side leading to a closed door where he could faintly hear shouts. The other way led to a stairway, leading up. Don switched the flashlight back off, and leaned against the wall to think a minute.

He knew there was a front grand staircase, but in a house this big it made sense that there would be smaller 'servant' stairs. The body guards were reported to always be close to Ramirez.

With all the commotion going on, it made sense that one guard would stay with Ramirez, while the other went to investigate what was happening. Ramirez's bedroom was upstairs, and probably the guard had come down the nearest staircase.

Don headed for the stairs.


	11. Chapter 11

Don't Know chapter eleven

The stairwell was much darker than the small hall had been. Don paused for a few minutes to let his eyes adjust, but there wasn't much light to adjust to. He put a shoulder to one wall and carefully felt his way up. The last thing Don wanted at this point was to miss a step and take a tumble.

In the confines of the narrow staircase his breathing sounded abnormally loud. He knew it was his mind playing tricks on him, but still he worried someone might hear him.

The other body guard was probably upstairs, and Don feared him shining a flashlight down the stairwell and exposing Don on the steps. A sudden beam of light would certainly blind him for a few crucial moments and Don would be helpless.

As he crept upwards, Don could hear voices gradually become louder, there were at least two people upstairs. Ramirez and the other body guard? Don's heart started pounding hard, and he struggled to keep his breathing under control.

When he caught an unexpected glimpse of light Don paused again to let his eyes adjust. He could gradually make out details, and he realized he was almost to the top of the stairs. As quietly as possible Don mounted the last few steps, then peeked around the corner.

He was looking down a hallway, and there were two men, holding flashlights standing in front of an open door. The flashlight were pointed downwards, so he couldn't make out facial features of either man, but he had no doubt that they were Alberto Ramirez and the other guard.

Don's heart was now slamming in his chest, and he leaned against the wall to regain control of himself. This was it, this was what he had come for, and he wasn't going to fuck it up now by getting too nervous.

He carefully slid his gun out of the holster with his right hand, while feeling for the switch on the flashlight with his left.

'On the count of three,' he told himself. ' Three, two, one, EXECUTE!'

Stepping into the hall, Don flipped the powerful beam of the flashlight on and shone it towards the eyes of the guard. Without giving the guard time to react Don was already firing his gun, two quick shots, going for the kneecaps. The bodyguard screamed in pain and dropped.

The flashlight the guard had been carrying rolled free from his hand and cast weird shadows over the walls as it rolled crazily around the hall. Don fired a shot at the flashlight Ramirez was carrying, hoping to put it out, but he missed his intended target and hit Ramirez instead.

It wasn't a solid hit, once more a killing shot, more likely he only grazed Ramirez. In the beam of his own flashlight he saw Ramirez drop his light and grab at his leg. Don rushed towards Ramirez, but the other man whirled suddenly and ran through the open door behind him.

Don was hot on his heels when he tripped over the flashlight Ramirez had dropped, and went sprawling face first. He managed to hang on to his gun, but his own flashlight went flying.

Don could see the door of the room Ramirez had run into starting to close, and jumping to his feet, lunged forward, barreling through the doorway. Fearing Ramirez having a gun and being able to clearly see him in the open lit doorway, Don slammed the door shut, and feeling for the handle in the dark was surprised and pleased when he felt a key.

Don locked the door, pulled the key out, and shoved it into his pocket. He had just locked himself in the room with Ramirez.

Don had thought the stairwell was dark, but here the blackness was overwhelming. At a guess, they were probably in the master bedroom, and the drapes on the windows must have been very expensive. Absolutely no light came from the windows; they might as well been in an interior room and for all Don knew, they were.

Don crouched on the floor, and assessed the situation. He was totally blind, but Ramirez had to be completely blind as well. Don had no idea where he was, or the layout of the room, so Ramirez definitely had the advantage there.

On the other hand, the almost crushing darkness was probably disorientating Ramirez as well as Don. Plus Don knew he had hit Ramirez, so the other man had to be in some pain.

Don had a gun and a knife, while he had no idea if or what Ramirez was armed with.

Don still had his penlight, but turning it on would most likely just make him an easy target.

Well, he couldn't simply stay here forever, he needed to get this done. Not daring to try walking in the overpowering blackness, Don felt out carefully with his hands and started crawling on the floor.

It was slow going, his hands would occasionally encounter a wall or a piece of furniture, but usually he just felt open floor. He had no idea what direction he was moving in, or if he was simply going in circles.

His eyes kept straining, trying to take in light that wasn't there. In some ways, Don felt like he was underwater. Sounds were distorted and muffled, yet madnified at the same time. He would hear a noise and would turn blindly towards it, only to hear another noise in the opposite direction.

Time lost all meaning, Don had no idea how long he had been groping around blindly. Comman sense insisted it couldn't have been that long, but it felt like eternity.

And some insane part of his brain was convinced that Ramirez was calmly watching Don crawl on the floor in amusement. Don had to fight with himself to keep from flipping on the penlight or screaming, 'Stop toying with me! Get this over with!

Don was thinking bitterly that this was insanely hopeless when his hand encountered something wet and sticky. Don froze while he struggled to figure out what he was feeling. Then he got a whiff of copper and knew it was blood.

Of course, he had shot Ramirez. Don took a deep breath and regained his comman sense. Slowly, carefully, he felt around for the blood trail. Painstakingly he followed it, worried that he might be going in the wrong direction, away from Ramirez instead of towards him.

But the blood kept getting wetter and fresher, so he knew he was on the right path. Ramirez seemed to be doing the same thing as Don, feeling and crawling blindly in the dark, Only Don was now on Ramirez's trail.

Inching his hand forward to feel the blood, Don's fingertips encountered something hard, and just as he was about to explore what it was, it moved. Shocked, Don froze again, then realized he must have caught up to Ramirez.

Cautiously, Don moved his hand forward again, and once more felt something hard move away from him. But Don had felt enough to be convinced it was the bottom of Ramirez's shoe that he had been touching.

Don carefully got to his knees, then slowly rose to his feet. Holding the penlight with his left hand, his gun in the right, Don tried to assess where Ramirez would be, breathed deep, and flipped on the penlight.

He was off slightly in his guess of the other's man position, but not by much. The sudden light after the complete darkness was shocking, and both men needed time to adjust.

Don was playing the light over Ramirez's prone body, and caught a glimpse of the dark gleam of a gun in his right hand just as Ramirez was trying to turn. The sound of Don's gun going off after such intense silence was deafening, as was Ramirez cry of pain as the bullet ripped through his right hand.

Keeping the small beam of light trained on the Ramirez, Don retrieved the gun. Ramirez was curled in a fetal position, cradling his right hand. He said something to Don in Spanish.

"No hablo Espanol," Don replied. "I know you speak English, so try that."

"Who are you? What do you want?" demanded Ramirez.

"My name's Don Eppes, and I'm here to kill you."

"Eppes? You're that FBI agent."

"Yeah, you remember. The one you had Jenkins humilate and torture. The one whose wife you had killed."

"The FBI has no jurisdiction here! You can't do this!"

"I'm not here as an agent. I'm here on my own, and I'm doing this," Don said as he pulled some plastic ties out of his pocket and bound Ramirez hands behind his back.

Don started playing the penlight over the room they were in, and realized his guess had been right, they were the master bedroom. Finding a couple candles in heavy, ornate candlesticks, Don lit them and they created pools of light in the extreme darkness.

Exploring a little more Don found what he had been hoping for, a master bathroom. Putting the candles in the bathroom, where they reflected in the mirrors, he grabbed Ramirez by his wounded leg, and ignoring his screams of pain, drug him into the bathroom.

"What are you waiting for?" whimpered Ramirez. "You said you were going to kill me, so get it over with."

"It's not going to be that easy. I'm going to play with you a little first," answered Don, as he prepared to use the toilet.

Ramirez looked terrified, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you watched the YouTube videos. You can probably guess," said Don.

Don hadn't been kidding when he told Jenkins he had felt a shit coming on .

"I hope your housekeeper doesn't mind," he told Ramirez, "but I'm throwing the dirty toilet paper in the trash, not the toilet. I don't want anything coming between my shit and your face."

Don took the time to piss in the toilet as well, while Ramirez whimpered and begged for mercy in a strange combination of English and Spanish.

"Cheer up," Don told him. "At least everyone on YouTube isn't going to watch you eat my shit."

Don grabbed Ramirez, drug him over to the nasty toilet, and couldn't do it. He could no more stick someone's head in that toilet than he could stick a knife into someone.

There really wasn't any point anyway, Ramirez was broken.

All of a sudden, Don felt flat. He looked at the pathetic creature on the floor and couldn't even feel hate any more. It was time to end this.


	12. Chapter 12

Don't Know chapter twelve

Don made his way woodenly to the outer door. He thought he would feel elation, or at least satisfaction, at defeating Ramirez, but he felt...nothing.

Pausing at the door, he dug the key out of his pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped outside. He stood blinking for a moment, compared to the bedroom the hall was well-lit. The bodyguard was slumped against the wall breathing hard and looking glassy-eyed. The three flashlights were scattered around the hall, still shining.

Don picked one up, then cocked his head, listening. The house seemed to be quiet, and Don felt like he was alone in the middle of nowhere. It seemed like he had been in the bedroom for hours, but a quick glance at his watch told him otherwise.

He wondered dully what was happening outside, and if Coop and Ian were okay. He started for the small staircase again, then stopped. For some reason he was reluctant to walk down that enclosed space.

Instead, he searched for the grand staircase, ignoring the voice in his head that was screaming at him that it was a stupid thing to do. Honestly, at that point, Don didn't care; if one of Ramirez's men wanted to kill him now he would let them.

Finding the main staircase he walked slowly down it, vaguely aware of lights and voices coming from some room at the bottom. When a beam from a flashlight suddenly illuminated him Don stopped, wondering if he would feel the bullets.

Instead he heard Ian's voice, "Eppes! Are you okay?"

While Don had been playing hide-n-seek in the dark with Ramirez, Ian and Cooper had been busy.

Shifting around from spot to spot, and gradually moving inside the compound, Ian had continued to wreck havoc by doing what he did best, shooting people. A sniper's best weapon is fear. When people watch someone right in front of them suddenly get shot by an unseen shooter, it tends to terrify them.

And Ian was good at picking out his targets. He had been trained that way, of course; but truthfully it wasn't his instructor's voice he always heard in his head in these situations. Instead, he remembered something he had read that Stonewall Jackson had said, 'Always mystify, mislead, and surprise the enemy.'

Ian picked out his targets carefully to confuse and scare his enemy. Then he watched very frightened men run away in blind panic. Stonewall Jackson had been a smart man. And one hell of a general.

Cooper had broken into Ramirez's arsenal, and it looked like Ramirez was preparing for a war. The storeroom was filled with firearms and small explosives, including grenades. Coop grinned, this was going to be easy.

Hearing voices and the sounds of men running toward the armory, Cooper grabbed a grenade, pulled the pen, and lobbed it. He was pretty sure he hadn't hurt anyone, but a grenade going off nearby does get people's attention. There were shouts and screams of fear, and then the men were running away from the arsenal.

Loading up with more grenades, Coop started lobbing more, in no particular pattern. He was simply trying to spread fear and confusion, and it worked.

Ramirez's men were quickly being routed. They had no lights, a mysterious sniper was putting their leaders out of commission, and now grenades were being lobbed all over the place. No one was trying to fight, they were only trying to escape.

Ian had watched the explosions of the grenades with bemusement, and deducing it was Coop's work, set out to track him down. They needed to find Eppes and get out of here. With all the commotion, it was only a matter of time before the police HAD to show up, even if they were afraid of Ramirez.

Of course, Ian was assuming Eppes was still alive. But when he caught up to Cooper and expressed that thought, Coop just shook his head.

"Don't worry about Donnie. He's like a cat, he always lands on his feet."

"Still, I think we better find him, get to the Buick, and get out of here."

Coop shrugged, "No arguments here. Let's head for the main house. Eppes has to have finished with Ramirez by now."

The main house stood huge, dark, and deserted looking with the front door ajar.

"Everybody just left?" questioned Coop.

"Trust me," said Ian dryly, "there's no honor amoung thieves. All criminals are just out for themselves."

Flipping on their penlights, they entered the house and were just starting to search for Don when they heard footsteps on the main staircase.

Don stood on the steps, looking shell-shocked. When they anxiously questioned him, he stared at them uncomprehendingly. Ian and Coop gently guided him out and got him in a jeep that was they found nearby.

Then they went searching for the Buick Regal. They found the chain and water can first, and tracked the car down. The two of them coaxed Don into the back seat, and covered him with a blanket. By then, they could hear sirens and watched police cars cautiously approach the dark compound.

"The sooner we get out of Dodge, the better," observed Coop.

"My thoughts exactly," agreed Ian. "There's another road in the opposite direction. Let's run dark until we reach it. Then head for the border."

When they reached El Paso, Ian insisted on stopping at a motel. They managed to get two rooms side by side with an innerconnecting door. Don, by now, was feeling and looking a little better.

When they got him to their rooms, he said bluntly, "I want a shower." Then he headed straight for the bathroom.

Don turned the shower on, stripped down, then abruptly dropped to his knees, as waves of dizziness washed over him. There, on the floor of the motel bathroom, he finally broke.

At first, he crouched on all fours, struggling to breath, then hard sobs racked his entire body. Ever since Robin had said yes to his second proposal, the one he had done right, he had felt filled with love.

Don had felt like he finally had it right, had life figured out, and was looking forward to what he and Robin were so carefully building together.

When Robin was killed, the love and light in Don had been killed as well. All he could feel was hate.

He had imagined Ramirez and Jenkins as monsters who HAD to be slain, because it was inconceivable that anything less then monsters had killed Robin. But instead of monsters, all he found were the same dreary little criminals he always fought.

Ramirez and Jenkins were both nothing but pathetic bullies, not worthy of hate. All they deserved was contempt. Unreasonably, Don felt cheated; like a medieval knight who had set out to do battle with a fire-breathing dragon, and only found a lowly garter snake.

When he had seen Ramirez laying on the bathroom floor, crying in fear, the hate that had driven Don had vanished.

Now, the grief and the pain of Robin's death that the hate had kept at bay rushed into the void. Don curled in the fetal position and sobbed.

After he had cried the worst out, Don lay limp and tired, while the bathroom slowly fogged up from the still running shower.

Finally he stumbled to his feet and stepped into the shower. It actually did make him feel a little better. Knotting a towel around his waist, he entered the bedroom looking for something to wear.

The room was empty, with his backpack on one of the beds. The connecting door was open, and he could hear the tv. Pulling out some clean, if rumpled clothing, Don got dressed and went to see what Billy and Ian were up to.

They were eating breakfast, and looking at his watch, Don was surprised to see it was mid-morning.

"There's food, coffee," said Coop, waving a hand toward a table. Don helped himself, then made himself comfortable on one of the beds.

"Interesting report from Mexico," said Ian. "Seems like the police raided the Ramirez compound last night and arrested most of his people."

"Yeah?" asked Don.

"Yeah, and guess what? They took Alberto Ramirez alive."

_Come on, nobody really believed Don killed Ramirez, did they? Don't worry, I'll tell you more about Don's last minute with Ramirez, and why he didn't kill him._


	13. Chapter 13

Don't Know chapter thirteen

_Sorry about the mess-up with chapter 12. I was in the middle of posting when my computer froze up, then started jumping around all over the place. Probably my fault, I'm sure I srewed up some way. I'm NOT good with computers. Anyway, the real chapter 12 is now up. _

They dropped Ian off in the same town he had joined them, evidently he really was going to do some 'lame-ass camping'. Don and Billy once again took turns driving back to LA.

When they got back to Robin's (no, Don's!) house, they said awkward good-byes, with Coop brushing off Don's attempt to thank him. Climbing into his SUV, Billy threw Don a smile and left.

Don retrieved his cell, and checked his messages. Not surprisingly, there were a whole slew of messages from his father, his brother, and various members of his team.

There was also an ominous message from Merrick's secretary crisply informing him that he had a meeting with the director that morning. Don glanced at his watch and grimaced, he barely had time to get there.

He looked at himself in dismay, his clothes were the worst for wear, and he needed a shower and a shave. Don sighed and shrugged, chances were that after the meeting he wouldn't need to worry about the FBI dress code.

Might as well go in and get it over with, his career with the Bureau was probably toast. He just hoped he could savage Billy and Ian's jobs. If not, maybe the three of them could become mercenaries together, they made a pretty good team.

He strode into Merrick's outer office looking very scruffy, and tried to ignore tha shocked looks he got. He didn't have to wait long, The secretaries were probably anxious to get rid of him.

If Merrick was surprised at Don's attire, he hid it, and Don was damned if he would apologize.

Merrick waved him to a chair, "Agent Eppes, good to see you. How are you doing?"

Sitting down cautiously, Don replied, "Good sir, and you?"

"I'm fine, I thought I should go over some developements with you. As you may have heard, the police finally raided Ramirez's compound, and he and most of his men have been arrested.

"Ramirez has made some absurb accusations against you, and the Mexican authorities would like to question you.

"We've assured them that of course we'll let them question a highly decorated senior agent if in return they'll send Alberto Ramirez to the States so we question him about various crimes, including murder.

"So far, Mexico has refused our offer. In fact, I think we have what's called a Mexican stand-off. I don't anticipate the situation changing, but if I were you, I'd avoid Cancun as a vacation spot.

"Also, Ashley Jenkins McComb has been arrested, but he seems petrified at the idea of returning to the States, and has confessed to myriad crimes in Mexico and will probably get a lengthy sentence there."

Merrick gave Don a bland look, "For some reason, McComb keeps fretting about being sent to the maximum security prison in Terre Haute."

"Well, it is where federal executions are carried out," pointed out Don.

"Just so," agreed Merrick. "Well, the doctors tell me you should be ready to return to active duty, do you feel up to it?"

Don gaped at Merrick, while he struggled to absorb what was happening. He wasn't being fired?

Don swallowed hard, "Yes sir."

Merrick nodded, stood, and offered Don his hand, "Good to have you back."

"Thank-you, sir," returned Don politely, shaking his hand.

Don had no memory of walking out of Merrick's office, although obviously he had done so. He suddenly found himself walking towards his desk almost in a fugue state. It was the sight of his team that jerked him back to reality.

The three of them were standing, watching him. Liz looked concerned, Nikki awed, and Colby looked downright sulky.

"Hi," Don nodded at them. "Don't know if you've heard, but I'll be back next week. So be prepared."

Liz kissed his cheek, "Good to see you Don."

"Yeah, Boss-man," from Nikki. "Hey, will you tell us what happened down in Mexico?"

"Who's been to Mexico?" parried Don, while Liz elbowed Nikki.

"Glad you're okay Boss," said Colby stiffly. "You'll excuse me, I need some coffee."

Don raised an eyebrow, watching Colby stalk away. He sighed, obviously he would have to find out what was upsetting his senior agent.

Following Colby into the breakroom, Don got his own cup of coffee, tasted it, and grimaced, "This is just as bad as I remember."

Colby grunted in response.

"Oh, come on man," begged Don. "Don't do this. What's pissed you off?"

Colby glared at him, "I'm an ex-ranger you know. I've been in combat! You didn't ask me! You just went off with Edgerton and Cooper!"

Don blinked, surprised. He realized he couldn't tell the real truth, that it had never occurred to Don to ask Colby along, so he offered Colby another truth instead.

"It would have been overkill."

Whatever response Colby had expected, that wasn't it. He gaped at Don, "What?"

"Ramirez was nothing Colby, just your typical bully."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

Colby looked appeased, "Well, could you at least tell me about it?"

Don smiled, "Sure, we'll go out for some beers and I'll fill you in. Right now though, I really want to shower and change clothes."

When Don walked into the craftsman about an hour later, it was , in the immortal words of Yogi Berra, 'deja vu all over again'. Dad looked worried, Amita excited, and Charlie was definitely pouting.

_Oh, for God's sake, surely Chuck didn't expect to be invited to the party, thought Don, irritated._

"Hi, I'm home," said Don, lamely.

"Good to see you son," Alan's eyes searched him. "Are you okay?"

"No," answered Don honestly, "but I will be."

Amita kissed him, "We were worried, I'm glad you're back."

"Yeah, glad you're okay," echoed Charlie, unenthusiastically.

_Someone should tell Chuck that a person with multiply Phd.'s should be too mature to pout._

When Don got out the shower a little later, he looked into the solarium to see Charlie working at a chalkboard.

"Kind of cramps your style having Dad living in the garage now, doesn't it?"

"We manage."

"Okay Buddy, spill. Why are you mad?"

"Why should I be mad at you? Oh, yeah, maybe because you lied to me! And I fell for it! I sat here like a lump on a log while you went after Ramirez!

"You didn't let me help! And I should have known, I should have realized you would go after Ramirez, but I believed you when you said you were just getting away for a while!"

"You're right."

Charlie stared at him, wide-eyed, "What?"

"You're right. I should be more open with you. I didn't want you to take that assignment to Langley because of the Ramirez trial.

"Not that I expected what happened, of course, but I knew Ramirez had a bad habit of targeting prosecutors. It scared me. I should have told you and asked you to stay.

"As to why I lied about getting away, the best I can say was, I wasn't really quite sane. I wasn't thinking clear, but I didn't realize it at the time.

"Sometimes, you just need to wait for common sense to come back."

"Is it back now?" asked Charlie.

"Well, it's getting there."

"Don, I knew you didn't want me to go to Langley, but I thought it was just because you know, you're FBI and they're CIA, the arch-rival shit. I didn't know you were worried about Robin. If you had told me..."

"I know, I said I should have told you. I'm sorry. We good?"

"Yeah, we're good."

Over ribeyes that night Don told everyone that he was planning on living in Robin's old house. At first, the support was underwhelming.

"Donnie, I don't want to tell you how to live your life, but you can't mourn forever."

"Dad, I'm not. I'm just being practical. I own the house. And everyone knows what the market's like, right?"

"But," Amita questioned, "won't it be too painful to live there?"

Don felt weary, "It's going to be painful where ever I live. I've been to the house. It's pretty much devoid of all traces of Robin."

Seeing the skeptical looks of his family, Don protested, "Trust me, I'm not making some kind of sick shrine to Robin! If I tried that, Robin would raise out of her grave and kick my ass!"

His family smiled at what he said, but Don felt a shiver down his spine, and wished he had watched his choice of words better.

"We could decorate it totally different!" exclaimed Amita. "Something Robin would never do!"

Don blinked at his sister-in-law, decorate? Usually he just shoved stuff where ever it was most convenient and left it there.

"We could paint the walls, get throw rugs..." Amita was getting enthusied. "Charlie and I will go get some paint samples tomorrow."

"We will?" asked Charlie, then at his wife's frown, added hastily, "Yes, of course we will."

Don smirked at his brother, "Thanks Chuck!"

"Don't call me Chuck!"

_I haven't forgotten my promise to tell you what stopped Don from killing Ramirez. There's one more chapter to go, and I'll tell you. I actually gave a hint in this chapter._

_Another courtesy note to non-Americans; Yogi Berra (who's currently about 86) played baseball for the Yankees, as a catcher, and also managed and coached. He's adored in my country because he was one of the best catchers ever, and for his malapropisms. The cartoon character Yogi Bear isn't really based on him, but the name is a nod to him._


	14. Chapter 14

Don't Know Chapter fourteen

_Final chapter! I want to thank everyone for reading, and I wish to apologize for my mistakes, especially when posting._

_A big thank-you to Cissyaliza, nessy22 and Rinne for reviewing. You three made my day. Diogenes250, I haven't fogotten you. I agree, the show did get sloppy, and I do know NSA doesn't have agents (although it's amazing how many fan fic writers believe they do), but it was trying to create drama and tension, so some slack is allowed, I think. (And it was much better than any CSI or NCIS show-those shows are so ludicrous they're hysterical.)_

_Even on the show, Charlie can be a jerk, so convinced he's right, but I like him most of the time. But in some fanfic (not all), I detest him. Like you, I've had to stop reading certain authors. Not only do they canonize Charlie, but they demonize Don. And it's really nauseating when they have Charlie make like James Bond, risking life and limb in combat in places like Iraq, to save the world (and big brother Don, who's always a total asshole who doesn't appreciate what a saint he has for a brother). I LOATHE those writers. I'm glad to find out I'm not alone! Thanks for the note! (Oh, and I think I one-upped the Charlie whumpers, wouldn't you agree? I'm pretty damned sure their darling has never been FIGGED!)_

Luis Ramirez was successfully tried the second time around, found guilty, and sentenced to a lengthy prison term.

Mexico was just starting the process of investigating Alberto Ramirez and members of his organization. They were helped by Jenkins, who was only too willing to talk. All he asked in return was not to be sent back to the States.

There were numerous rumors about how the raid on Ramirez had come about. Mexico tried to act as if their police had grown a backbone and did it on their own. A rival criminal organization had already moved into the void, and some believed they had taken Ramirez out of the competition.

But the most popular theory was that the CIA had raided the compound in revenge for what had happened to Agent Eppes and his wife. The idea of the CIA doing the FBI any favors was laughable.

The CIA gave its usual non-denial denial by saying 'No comment'. The powers that be at the FBI fumed at their rival getting undeserved credit, but were forced to silence.

Don had given Amita free rein with the house, and had to admit, she had done a good job. The bright bold colors were nothing like his more reserved wife would have chosen. He was afraid it might be too feminine for him, but then chided himself for thinking that way. Amita was very smart, she didn't forget this was a man's home.

Once he was in the house, there were only a few tasteful momentos of Robin. The worst was pulling up to the house after work because the outside hadn't changed. Don would, for just a brief second, expect Robin to open the door. Then there was always the bitter reminder that would never happen.

As much as possible Don threw himself into work, losing himself in the job. If he didn't go home until late at night when it was dark and he was exhausted, it wasn't so painful.

Several months after everything had settled down, Don was almost alone at work, finishing up some paperwork long after everyone else had left. He looked up to see Larry wandering around in his usual vague way.

"Can't stay away from our coffee?" Don greeted him.

"I came to see how you are doing, Don. But I'll try to brave your coffee, if you'll take a break."

Don's eyebrows rose, then he led the way to the breakroom, pouring them both some coffee.

"You wouldn't be checking up on me for Megan's benefit, would you?"

"She has been concerned about you Don. She was convinced you were going to go after Ramirez."

"Officially, I didn't."

"And unofficially?" queried Larry.

"Well, that's another story."

"You know, Megan was really worried you would kill him, or let him kill you. May I express my relief neither event occurred?"

Don was silent a minute, staring at his coffee, then asked abruptly, "Has Charlie ever mentioned Carl Wilcox to you?"

Larry's brow furrowed, "Wasn't he some bully you fought a lot in school?"

"Yeah, eventually. But from kindergarten to about fifth grade I was scared spitless of him."

"I'm sorry Don. It's hard to imagine you being scared spitless of anyone. Now Charles, yes. But not you."

"Well, I was scared of him, everyone was. Then I don't know why, but I just suddenly got sick and tired of being pushed around by him. I stood up to him, but I was sure I was going to get the crap beat out of me. Instead, I was winning the fight when the teachers broke it up.

"This was back in the good old days, when fighting automatically meant a trip to the principal's office and five whacks with the paddle."

"Ouch. I'm glad we're more enlightened now and no longer allow corporal punishment in public schools," observed Larry.

"Yeah, well, everyone knew Principal Corbitt smoked your butt good, so I was really scared. Mostly I was worried about crying and shaming myself and Carl laughing at me.

"Well, I went first, leaned across the desk, hung on for dear life, kept from screaming, but still had tears running down my face.

"I was sure Carl would do better."

"I take it he didn't?"

"He bawled like a baby! Clutched his butt, danced around, the whole bit. And all I could think was I spent years being afraid of this pussy."

"Are you saying Alberto Ramirez was another Carl Wilcox?" asked Larry.

"Yeah, but more, I went to confront Ramirez because I was afraid of him," answered Don.

"Charlie says I'm never afraid, but that's not true. I do get afraid. I'm just worried about letting fear control my life."

"_Cowards die many times before their death/ The valiant never taste of death but once."_ quoted Larry.

Don frowned, "That's from Julius Caesar."

"It is indeed from Julius Caesar. I'm sure you'll only die once Don."

"I thought I would already," muttered Don.

Larry stared, "Oh my. That would be Hamlet. Did you go to Mexico wanting to die?"

"I don't know if I wanted to die, I just expected to die. Just like I didn't initially believe I could take Carl Wilcox, I didn't believe I could beat Alberto Ramirez.

"I'm not the family genius. I have to keep learning the same lesson all the time."

"Well, you may not be the genius Charles is, but don't sell yourself short Don. I would point out that you were under extreme duress.

"But, you did go to Mexico, even though you thought you would die. Was Megan right to be conerned?"

"Was I suicidal? Maybe. But I went swearing either I would kill Ramirez or die trying."

"But he wasn't capable of killing you. While I'm glad you didn't kill him, I'm curious as to why not?"

"I meant to. We were in this elaborate bathroom filled with fancy mirrors. The electricity was off, and there were candles in the bathroom. Their flames were glowing and reflecting in the mirrors, creating weird shadows on the walls.

"Ramirez was lying on the floor, and I backed up to the door with my gun out. I didn't want blood splattered all over me, so I backed off a little. I was deciding where would be the best place to shoot him, head shot or center mass. . . when something stopped me."

Larry, spellbound, could barely get out, "What stopped you?"

"Robin's voice saying, 'Don't bother Don. He's not worth it'".

Larry's eyes widen, "Just her voice? You didn't see anything?"

Don laughed, "No, no ghostly visions or uncounted for shadows. Probably it was just my conscious talking in a voice I would pay attention to, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss the idea of a paranormal encounter, Don. Yout brother is a skeptic, but a lot of intelligent people believe in ghosts."

"_There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,/ Than are dreamt of in your philosophy?_" questioned Don.

"Hamlet again, exactly. But to get back to Mexico, after you heard Robin's voice, or your own conscious using Robin's voice, you just left?"

"I just left," said Don abruptly. He wasn't about to admit to anyone he felt a gentle, but persistent pressure pushing his gun hand down.

There was a moment's silence, then Larry cleared his throat, "I appreciate you sharing this with me Don, but I'm also curious as to what you think the future holds?"

"You mean, moving on? Maybe eventually finding someone else?" Don asked tiredly. "No, I don't think I'm that brave."

"Again, don't sell yourself short."

"What? I can't have a fulfilling life as a career man and a doting uncle?"

"Doting uncle? Is that the big announcement Charles is making at the barbeque this weekend?"

"You didn't hear it from me. But Charlie never could keep a secret."

"Well, you'll be a wonderful uncle, and you're extremely dedicated to your job, but won't you need something more?"

Something more? Could he do it? Risk his heart again? Find the courage to try again?

Don shook his head, and said softly, "I don't know...I just...don't know."


End file.
